


Take a Chance on Me

by velvetnoodle (goldfishsunglasses)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Famous Harry, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Kid Fic, M/M, Non-Famous Louis, Single Parent Harry, i’ll let y’all puzzle that one out lmao, technically no one bottoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 10:54:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 96,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14377155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldfishsunglasses/pseuds/velvetnoodle
Summary: Harry Styles, former member of the hugely successful boyband Status Single, returns to his hometown of Holmes Chapel with his daughter nine years after the band broke up and he disappeared from the limelight. Convinced he’s faded into obscurity by now, Harry deems this the perfect place to give his daughter a stable childhood, which includes signing her up to play football at the local club, of course.The only problem is the coach, Louis, seems to dislike him. Like really, really dislike him. Which drives Harry mad, because everyone likes him. Everyone. So when he finds out Louis’ flat has flooded and he’s got nowhere to stay, Harry is quick to offer up his spare room in the hopes of winning the other man over.(aka the Strangers to Enemies to Friends to Lovers Roommate AU you didn’t know you needed, feat. Single Dad!Harry, Footie Coach!Louis, a precocious 9 year old, a band of meddling family members, an overly excited labradoodle, an extremely Done cat, and a Shiall wedding you’ll never forget.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> massive MASSIVE thanks to my beta/britpicker [rainbowbaz](https://rainbowbaz.tumblr.com) for helping to make this fic a reality and saving it from becoming and americanized mess!! and another massive thank you to [paynespider](http://paynespider.tumblr.com) for creating the amazing art for this fic that i am STILL screaming over!!

**3 September 2025**  
**The Old Red Lion**  
**Holmes Chapel**

_[[song: Take a Chance on Me-ABBA]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=72r32bceDzg)_

Louis can’t fucking believe this. He absolutely cannot fucking believe this. Out of all the pubs in all of England he had to go and pick the one with Harry-fucking-Styles in it.

The universe obviously has it out for him tonight, because not only is Harry Styles - former member of the boy band Status Single and the literal bane of Louis’ existence - singing ABBA in a random pub in Cheshire, no. That would be too simple, see. Because not _only_ is Harry Styles up on stage, in public for the first time in nine years - not that Louis’ been keeping track or anything - belting out the lyrics to the bloody song like his life depends on it...

He’s singing to _Louis._

Quite terribly, to be honest, which strikes Louis as odd, because surely former pop sensation Harry Styles is familiar enough with his own bloody vocal register to know that there’s no chance in hell he can pull off ABBA. This just serves to makes Louis even more upset, because he _loves_ ABBA, and now Harry Styles is going to ruin them forever

He briefly entertains the thought that maybe Harry Styles has lost his voice - that the talent upon which he rode to stardom has left his body over time, but there’s no way he’d be that lucky.

Maybe he’s just really fucking pissed.

Whatever it is, the people in the pub seem to be eating it up, though Louis supposes it’s because they’re all pretty fucking pissed as well.

Bloody hell, this is so _embarrassing_. Both for himself and the man shimmying around the stage like he’s fucking Mick Jagger - if Mick Jagger sang pop music and danced like a drunk dad at a barbecue.

And he is. A Dad. Louis vividly remembers his sisters reacting to that announcement. He’d been 13 at the time, just old enough to understand what was going on, but still too young to fully understand why a guy like that would give up his fame, his flashy lifestyle. Harry Styles had only been 22 for fucks sake. The same as Louis is right now. The age Louis is absolutely certain he’s not ready to have kids at.

It’d been that moment that convinced him Harry Styles was insane.

To be fair, Louis’ current predicament - courtesy of the man himself - isn’t doing much to disprove that theory. Like, at all.

He doesn’t seem to notice Louis’ annoyance, completely focused on his serenade (ugh) and ignoring everyone else in favour of Louis. He’s just… staring… as he sings. Intensely. It makes Louis squirm a bit, and the feeling only gets worse when he remembers that everyone can see this. Everyone is watching this happen, and Louis hates it. Hates Harry Styles for doing this to him. (Hates Harry Styles, full stop.)

His week had been going well up until this moment. He’d skyped with his younger sisters earlier today, he’d managed to get a good parking spot tonight, and the fittest bloke in the pub had just bought him a drink. Louis had been in the middle of debating whether or not he’d actually go home with the guy and wasn’t paying attention to the activity on stage until the pub had gone silent.

He’d turned around to see what - or who - had managed to shut the entire crowd up, and his laughter had died in his throat.

The lighting in the pub is dim, but not dim enough to hide the fact that the shirt Harry Styles has got on - black, with what looks like red roses - is sheer. He struts around the small stage like he fucking owns it, and his shirt is unbuttoned so far that Louis is sure he’s one hip thrust away from a proper nip slip. Not that he’s paying attention to Harry Styles’ nipples, of course. They’re just… They’re visible, okay? It’s not Louis’ fault his eyes are drawn in that direction.

He can’t even pretend it’s not him who’s being sung to, not when bloody Harry Styles keeps pointing his fucking ringed ex-boybander fingers at Louis. And only at Louis. One of the rings catches the light, threatening to blind him. And if that’s that not the cherry on top of the fucking shit sundae that is Louis’ life at the moment, everyone else has noticed the he’s the object of Harry’s attention as well.

Louis isn’t one to get flustered by attention, he’s a former drama club kid, for fuck’s sake, but this is different. This is happening without his consent, and he’s…

Well, he’s fucking embarrassed, okay?

And that song choice? What the hell is Harry Styles on about? _Take A Chance On Me_? Is he being wooed? Is Harry Styles fucking _flirting_ with bim? No, that wouldn’t make sense. Then again, nothing about this evening is making much sense. At all.

Louis’ phone buzzes in his pocket. When he checks it, he sees that it’s only a work email - nothing that can’t wait - and as he locks the screen and goes to pocket it, his finger brushes the home button, bringing up the group picture of his siblings that he has set as his lock screen.

He sighs, because as fucking fucked up as this situation is, he can’t just not take a picture of Harry Styles for his sisters. If they ever found out he passed up an opportunity - and knowing them, they would - they might actually murder him. (Or at least never let him come home again.)

So, in the interest of being a good brother - and preserving his life - Louis lifts his phone as subtly as he can and snaps a quick picture. The flash goes off, and he flushes, hoping that Harry Styles hadn’t noticed, because this might make it seem like Louis actually, like, cared about his existence, or whatever. And he _doesn’t_.

It’s just really hard to ignore the existence of someone who’s trying to get your attention by shaking their arse in your general direction. At this point, it feels like the song has been going on for hours, and Louis has never been more grateful to hear the final notes of what _used_ to be a song he liked, and was now relegated to the category of “songs to automatically skip.”

_Fuck you, Harry Styles_ , he thinks. And then, _why me_? And finally, what do I do now?

Someone clears their throat to his left, and Louis suddenly remembers what he’d been doing before his world had been turned upside-down.

“Sorry, love, just got a bit distracted.”

The man he’d been flirting with _hmms_ and Louis realises he’s not looking at Louis. He’s looking past Louis. At the stage. At _Harry Styles_. Fucking hell.

“So,” he asks, already more than prepared for the answer but still hoping he’s wrong, “this isn’t happening, then?”

“Sorry, sweetheart,” the man (Drew? Dave? Dan? He really hopes it isn’t Dan.) apologises, “but it’s not every night you get a chance to shag Harry Styles.” He doesn’t actually sound sorry at all, and Louis scowls.

“Fuck you, mate.”

“Maybe some other time, love.”

“Cheers,” Louis spits sarcastically, and glowers at the man’s back as he makes his way to the stage.

Fuck that guy. Fuck Harry Styles. Fuck pubs. Fuck karaoke night. Fuck Status Single, because that fucking band is the reason fucking Harry Styles is even fucking famous in the first place and just...

_Status Single_. Ugh.

The band had made their debut when he was 8 years old, and his two older sisters were taken with them almost immediately - along with what seemed like every other teenage girl in England. It got worse once they broke America. They became more popular. They were everywhere.

Louis hated it. Hated them, and the genre of pop music they stood for. Half because he hated pop music out of principle. (Yes, it’s cliche. Sue him.)

The other half was because while he couldn’t stand the four lads, hated them with a passion that only an angry teenage boy can, his two older sisters did not. Unfortunately.

To say Lottie and Fizzy were obsessed would be an understatement. Ever since the first time _Tell Me No Lies_ played on the radio, the two of them had been hooked. They owned all the merch, they bought all the magazines, and Louis still remembers one terrifying night when he’d snuck in after curfew after getting drunk with Stan in the park, and nearly shit himself before realising the shadowy figure in the middle of the front hall was, indeed, _not_ a burglar, but Zayn Malik of Status Single. Smiling serenely at Louis like he knew all of his secrets.

It was only his love for his sisters that kept him from ripping the thing to bloody pieces. That, and the fact that it felt too much like kicking an actual person. Not that he’d tried, obviously. And when his sisters later asked why Zayn was lying on the kitchen floor, he’d blamed the cat.

(They didn’t have a cat.)

While there was no real frontman of Status Single, it was obvious most of the attention was focused on Harry Styles. Which meant that while Status Single was everywhere, Harry Styles was even more so - meaning he was more often than not the one Louis blamed their infectious presence on. What could he say? The kid bugged him to no end.

The things he read about Harry in the tabloids didn’t help either. Womaniser. Lothario. Heart-breaker. Villain of the year. The list went on. Harry wasn’t a nice guy. (The other members seemed nice enough, but they were still members of Status Single and were therefore tainted by association.)

The tabloids weren’t far off then, Louis thinks, a bit meanly, as he watches Harry Styles rest his large hand on Derek’s arm, smiling his toothy smile and looking like he was undressing Derek (or maybe it was Dominic?) with his green, green eyes.

But it had been Louis that Harry Styles sang to, right? Not Dominic. _Louis_. So why was Harry Styles over there and not next to Louis, making those eyes at _him_? As if Harry Styles would actually shag that guy. Surely he’s got better taste than that. Not that it matters, obviously. Louis isn’t interested. He’s _not_.

And okay, he’ll admit Harry is attractive. If you’re into curls. And green eyes. And long (long) legs, broad shoulders, narrow waists, deep voices, and dimples.

(Which Louis totally isn’t.)

Although apparently, Harry Styles has terrible taste after all, because Derek (Dennis?) gives Louis a smug smile and a thumbs up, and Louis feels his scowl deepen. How bloody nice for him. He gets to shag a celebrity, while Louis gets to slink home to his shitty one bedroom flat and wank in the shower. While _not_ thinking of Harry Styles. And the way he swivelled his hips onstage and his shirt moved to the side, exposing his extra...nope. Nope, not going there. He’s going to go home and have a _cold_ , wank-free shower. Alone. And he’s never coming back to this particular pub again.

Fucking Harry Styles.

 

Harry hadn’t meant to sing that song.

He hadn’t meant to sing to that man either; it’d just kind of happened, really.

Five minutes ago he was prepared to go onstage with his sister to perform their much practiced - and completely platonic- version of _Endless Love_ when he’d looked across the room and spotted quite possibly the fittest man he’d ever seen in his life across the pub. Unfortunately for Harry, his attention was currently held by a far less (in Harry’s opinion, anyway) man, who kept making the man laugh.

Harry didn’t like that; _he_ wanted to be the one making him laugh. _He_ wanted to see that smile up close, hear that laugh right in his ear.

He wanted to look at that guy forever.

Which is why, after undoing the first three (okay, four) buttons on his shirt - and ignoring his sister’s comment about “laying it on a little thick” - he’d made his way to the table where the middle-aged women running karaoke night had set up camp to change the song at the minute minute. It ended up costing him a fair amount of begging (and £200) but it would be worth it, Harry was sure of it.

Except… Except his quest to locate the Man of his Dreams has been interrupted by said man’s companion, who is currently leering at Harry in a way that makes his skin crawl. He doesn’t know if he was supposed to catch that thumbs up - it wasn’t exactly covert - but there’s nothing about this conversation that deserves any sort of triumphant hand gesture.

He could have sworn he saw the man in this area when he’d finished on stage, and slightly regrets his stop by the toilets before coming out here, because it’s becoming apparent that Harry’s lost him. He curses his narcissism and desire to check his hair before going to speak to the object of his affections, and sighs, as the creep in front of him won’t take a hint.

He’d opened with a stereotypical, “So, come here often?” that had Harry resisting the urge to roll his eyes as he grinned, because Harry Styles is nothing if not polite. “Nope, first time actually.” It was that answer that led to the thumbs up, and Harry works to keep a straight face and pretend like he’s unaware of the other man’s intentions.

“New in town?” he asks next, and Harry nods, causing the man’s lecherous smile widens. “You should let me be your guide then, I can show you…” he pauses to waggle his eyebrows suggestively. “Around.”

“Actually,” Harry says, trying not to make it obvious that he’s searching for the man he’d been singing too, “I’m pretty familiar. I grew up here. But thank you for the offer.”

“Of course.” The man rests his (disgustingly sweaty) hand on Harry’s bicep. “How could I forget where the famous Harry Styles spent his boyhood.”

Harry’s blood freezes at the fact that this man has apparently recognised him. “Sorry, mate,” he laughs awkwardly, “I’m not who you think I am.”

“C’mon. You think I wouldn’t recognise those?” He gestures to Harry’s torso, where both his butterfly and sparrow tattoos are on display.

“Must be a coincidence,” he says lightly. “You seem really drunk.”

“If you don’t want to go home with me you can just say so.”

“Okay,” Harry says, “I don’t want to go home with you. Actually, I was looking for the man who was with you earlier. Where did he go?” Harry bristles as he feels himself being examined from head to toe. “The man you were with, where did he go?”

“He left, sweetheart. Wasn’t interested in you, which means it’s my lucky—”

Harry cuts him off, annoyed that he won’t actually take Harry’s refusal seriously, and frustrated because he doesn’t have time to deal with this; the future love of his life is missing, and Harry’s determined to track him down. “Do you know his name? How can I find him?”

“I’ve never met him before tonight. I do, however, have his phone number if you want it.”

“Yes, please,” Harry says, trying to keep the desperation from his voice, because he can’t let this guy know how much he wants it. The man produces a drink napkin from the pocket of his bootcut jeans with a phone number written on it. Harry feels his blood thrum with excitement at the knowledge that he’s going to find this guy, only to have his hopes dashed as he watches the napkin get shoved into the remains of someone’s drink that’s been abandoned on the bar, soaking the paper and obscuring Harry’s one connection to the stranger forever.

“Whoops.”

Harry starts to see red, and his hands curl into fists. He’s never punched an actual person, only the bags at the gym, but right now he wants to deck this guy and wipe the bloody smug expression off his face. Before he gets a chance to act on his anger, he feels someone wrap an arm around his waist. He stiffens until he hears Gemma saying, “Sorry, he’s pissed.”

“Don’t apologise to him,” Harry cries, feeling the betrayal of his one and only dearest sister apologising to the man who’s just ruined his life. “He’s a supervillain.”

Gemma snorts. “Okay, bud. Let’s get you home.”

Harry allows Gemma to half-carry him to her car, and crawls into the backseat. He puts his seatbelt on, and then tucks the shoulder strap behind himself as he lies down, stretching the length of the seat.

“Maybe he didn’t like the song,” he mumbles, “he probably just didn’t like the song.”

“What’s that?” Gemma asks as she starts the car.

“The guy. The one I was singing to. Maybe he just didn’t like the song? D’you think that’s why it didn’t work?”

“Are you joking?”

He shakes his head.

“You publicly embarrassed the guy, Harry.”

Harry blinks, trying to comprehend. “I didn’t mean to. I thought he’d be…I don’t know, flattered? I mean, I would’ve been.”

“Not everyone is you, though.”

“Hey!” he cries, only half-pretending to be offended. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She slows at the light, turns around and fixes him with a level stare. “You know exactly what I mean.”

He doesn’t, but he’s too drunk to argue with her. Crawling into bed and hiding under the covers sounds like a much better idea, and maybe if he’s lucky he won’t remember this in the morning.

“You certainly drank enough for that to be a real possibility,” Gemma says, and Harry realises he’d said that last part out loud.

“I fucked up, Gemma,” he says sadly.

“That you did, little brother. But, if it makes you feel any better, you’ll probably never see that guy again.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better, actually.”

She laughs. “It actually wouldn’t surprise me if you _did_ see him again. Sounds like something that would happen to you.”

“Don’t get my hopes up,” he all but wails pathetically.

“You’re being a drama queen. What do you even know about this guy, anyway?”

That he’s pretty, Harry wants to tell her. That he’s pretty, and that he has kind eyes, and that Harry wants to marry him probably. Only he doesn’t say any of that, because his eyelids are heavy, and speech seems like too much work now; he’s just so sleepy. Harry faintly registers Gemma telling him goodnight - a bit too patronisingly for his taste, really - before he’s falling asleep in the backseat of her car.

He dreams of boys, and kisses, and the colour blue. He dreams of ABBA, of heartbreak, of spilt drinks, of Louis. The napkin had said Louis, he’s sure of it.

_Louis_.

He clings to the name, determined to remember it come morning. Because Harry’s going to find that boy. Man. Boy-man. Harry’s going to find that boy-man, Harry’s going to marry that boy-man, but mostly, Harry just wants to see him again.

_Louis._

* * *

Louis pads to his small kitchen in search of breakfast, eyes still blurry and neck sore from his unfortunate sleeping position the night before. He hopes he can get that sorted out before Saturday, because it won’t do him any good to be in pain on his first day in a new coaching job.

Cracking his neck, Louis fills up the kettle at the sink and starts it up. He peeks through the cupboards as if he’s going to use a different mug than usual, then selects the one he drinks from every morning. It’s comforting, this routine. Making tea. Drinking tea. (Not cleaning up after, though. He hates that.)

His phone buzzes as it has been all morning, and he’s finally wide-awake enough to care. When he picks it up, he sees he has several messages from both Lottie and Fizzy, and even a few missed calls. Trying to push down the panic that hits when he thinks about why his two older sisters are trying so hard to reach him, he opens the first message from Fizzy.

**_There’s no way that was actually Harry Styles Lou_ **

The next message is a group message from Lottie to both him and Fizzy, because apparently that’s a thing they’re doing now.

**pix or it didn’t happen**

He doesn’t open any more messages, or listen to any voicemails before he’s hitting the button to facetime Fizzy. She picks up after two rings, and Louis has to double-check that he chose the right contact, because instead of Fizzy, Lottie’s face fills the screen, a cross between accusatory and barely contained glee.

“Where’s Fizzy?”

“Here!” his older sister calls from somewhere off-screen. “Lots hijacked my phone.”

“I did not,” Lottie huffs, “I merely commandeered it.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Fizzy says, and Lottie groans.

“I don’t care. Louis saw Harry Styles last night, and absolutely nothing else is important.”

“Hold on,” Louis interrupts, “you said you wanted a picture or it ‘didn’t happen.’ He punctuates his last words with air-quotes, and Lottie giggles.

“You did send a picture. A very blurry picture, yes, but luckily for you, I’m very good at identifying blurry pictures of every member of Status Single.”

“Former members,” Louis reminds her, because he’s cranky and he knows it will upset her. Except apparently not today, because she just laughs.

“Honestly, I don’t know how we doubted you. It makes sense that he would pop up there, considering it’s his hometown and all.”

“His what?”

“Hometown,” she repeats slowly. “Typically, the town in which you were born, and—”

“Shut up, I know what a bloody hometown is, just… What?”

Lottie lets out an indigent squawk that confuses Louis until he realises Fizzy’s just reclaimed her phone, and is laughing at him.

“Did you really not know? Louis, you’re living in Harry Styles’ hometown. I can’t believe you forgot.”

“Forgot? I never even knew this in the first place.”

She rolls her eyes. “We told you before you left, dude. Why do you think we were so excited when you told us you were moving there?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he spits out sarcastically, “because you were excited that your younger brother was making his way in the world?”

“Obviously not,” Lottie says in the background.

“Of course we were,” Fizzy soothes while scowling at her. “It being the place Harry Styles grew up was just the bonus.”

“An extremely fit bonus.”

“Be quiet, Lottie.”

“Make me,” she challenges, and then, “when do we get to meet him?”

“You can’t meet him,” Louis says, “are you insane?”

“Wow, arsehole. You don’t even like the guy and you’re still trying to keep him all to yourself.”

“I’m not keeping him all to— He’s not even mine to keep! And even if that was legitimately something that could happen— Which it obviously isn’t, I don’t want him— Did the two of you forget how I feel about that bloody band?”

“Honestly, we’d assumed you were over it, considering you moved to Harry Styles’ hometown and all.”

“I told you,” he grits out, “I didn’t fucking know it was his fucking hometown.”

Lottie rolls her eyes. “Whatever.” She snaps her gum. “Also, Fizzy and I are coming to see you this weekend.”

“You are not. I’m serious, Lots, don’t come here. And…” Louis trials off, because as much as he despises the guy, he doesn’t exactly think the updated whereabouts of the mysterious Harry Styles is something that’s meant to be broadcast. “And don’t tell anyone he’s here, okay? I don’t want people flooding the place.”

“Are you seriously asking us to keep this a secret?”

“Yes.”  
  
She sighs. “Only because it’s you, Lou.”

“Thank you,” he says, “I know how hard it’ll be.” (And he does, because his sisters are terrible gossips, but he knows better than to mention that on the phone.)

The sun shining through the window bounces off the shiny surface of his microwave, very nearly blinding Louis, and also drawing his attention to the fact that if he doesn’t end the call now, he’ll end up late for work.

“I’ve got to go,” he tells his sisters apologetically, “but we’ll talk again soon, okay?”

They murmur their responses, and Louis is about to hang up when Lottie says, “Wait, one more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“What did he smell like?” they both ask at the same time, and it’s all a bit too much really. After such an emotionally taxing conversation, this is what finally pushes him over the edge, and this time, Louis really does hang up. And turns off his phone, because he knows his sisters, and really doesn’t feel like answering any more of their questions today. Besides, he’s got work soon, and needs to get ready. And he can’t do that when his mind is filled with thoughts of Harry Styles. (Only because his sisters put them there, of course.)

Harry, with his green, _green_ eyes, and curls that Louis’ been dead jealous of ever since he spotted the lad on the telly one morning before school - he’ll let himself admit that much - and collection of tattoos that’s grown exponentially over the years. Louis would care, he does have a thing for tattoos, after all, except it’s Harry, and no amount of ink can change that fact. (Not even the laurels on his hips that had made a surprise appearance during his little performance the night before.)

Louis picks up his cup of tea, wincing when he realises he’d been on the phone long enough for it to have gone completely cold. A glance at the clock on the microwave lets him know he’s run out of time to make a new one if he doesn’t want to be late for work, and he resigns himself to the fact that he’ll have to make do with the shit tea available at the office. This is also Harry Styles’ fault, he thinks, as his sisters would have never called him this early if he hadn’t pulled that bullshit last night. Jesus, last night. Louis is still in a partial state of disbelief over the situation. Things like this don’t happen to him. They just… don’t.

And no matter what, he feels secure in the fact that he won’t have to see Harry Styles again. That shouldn’t be too hard, all he has to do is avoid anywhere he might show up. Like the pub. And…well, that’s all he’s got so far, really. Maybe he can ask his sisters what they think. Except he doesn’t exactly fancy a repeat of their conversation from earlier. Also, there’s no proof that Harry Styles is living here again, he reminds himself. For all he knows, it was a one-off thing before the other man fucked off to God knows where for another decade.

* * *

Louis arrives at the office five minutes early. He takes this as an opportunity to steal Luke’s regular parking spot, because Luke was a dick to him last week and he still isn’t quite over it. (It doesn’t hurt that the spot is closer to the door either.)

He reaches the door at the same time as his co-worker, Louise, who looks far too awake for eight o’clock in the morning. Louis groans internally, because he doesn’t mind her, he really doesn’t, but he’s in a bit of a shit mood and just wants to get to his desk. Maybe steal a quick kip before his boss shows up. But Louise has other plans for his morning, apparently.

“Good morning, Louis!” she chirps. “Sleep well?”

Louis shrugs in response. His non-verbal reply doesn’t seem to faze her as she prattles on.

“I slept great! Did you know you’re supposed to turn off your electronics an hour before you sleep? I started doing that and now I sleep like a baby! It also probably helps that I’ve given up gluten. Have you thought about giving up gluten, Louis? I’ve really noticed a lot of positive changes! In fact, I’m considering submitting a suggestion to the tea lady to—”

This gets Louis’ attention. “Why would you do that?”

“To improve everyone's health, obviously,” she says like he’s being ridiculous. Which he most certainly is not. If anything, she’s the ridiculous one if she thinks she can convince Agnes to change her ways. The old girl’s been here for ages, and besides, aren’t people always saying you can’t teach an old dog new tricks? Still, it would be entertaining to watch her try; Louis does get awfully bored.

“I think you should go for it,” he says, working hard to keep the sarcasm from his voice. “I’m sure she’d love to hear your opinions on her food.”

“Do you think?”

“Sure thing, Louise. I think you should go tell her right now, actually.”

“That’s a good idea!”

Louis doesn’t look over his shoulder to see if she’s left, but he takes the sudden silence as confirmation that he’s alone again. It’s not that he minds Louise, or any of his other co-workers really, but it’s Monday morning, he’s hungover, and he’s still in a foul mood over Harry Styles. Which only makes his foul mood worse, because he doesn’t want to be in a foul mood, and he especially doesn’t want to spend any of his time thinking about him.

Which turns out to be easier said than done, because when he makes his first call of the morning he hears the unmistakable sound of Status Single warbling in the background. How bloody brilliant. And of course, the women on the other end of the line is one of those people who actually answers the phone for unknown numbers, and even wants to hear his sales pitch. The same sales pitch he’s having quite a bit of trouble remembering, because Harry Styles is belting out the chorus to _Tell Me No Lies_ , and it’s taking Louis back to the first time he heard Harry Styles sing.

It was that same song, actually. They’d been guests on Top of the Pops; it was all his sisters could talk about the week before, and Louis was curious. He’d pretended to be absorbed in his comic books, and would fight anyone who tried to say otherwise, but he wanted to see this group that had his sisters so excited.

The song had already made its radio debut - it was everywhere at this point - but before that performance, Louis had known very little about the individual members, much less what their voices sounded like. Louis wasn’t a fan of the song - even at eight years old he considered himself much too cool to listen to “dumb pop music” - but that didn’t mean the moment the third member stepped to the side, revealing 16 year old Harry Styles in all his curly-haired, scarf-wearing glory, hadn’t left an impression on Louis. Especially when he opened his mouth and started to sing. Louis hadn’t wanted to like it, he really didn’t, and, if he’s honest, that might’ve been the moment his infamous Harry Styles grudge began.

That hadn’t been the only time he’d heard Harry Styles sing - his sisters were obsessed with the band, after all - but last night had been the first time he’d ever heard him sing solo. He’d sounded amazing, of course, but that still didn’t make Louis hate it any less. And he’d really, _really_ , hated it.

The song ends, and the next song is also by Status Single and Louis can’t do this.

“I’m sorry, madam,” he apologises, though he’s not very sorry at all, “but your taste in music is terrible and I’m going to have to end this call now. Have a nice day!”

He hangs up and spins his chair around, jumping slightly when he sees that his cubemate, Daniel, has shown up and is glaring at him.

“You can’t do that,” he says, and Louis rolls his eyes.

“’course I can. See my name up there?” He points to the leaderboard on the wall where his name has sat at the top for weeks. “That means I can do what I want— Within reason, obviously,” he amends. “But I’m aware of exactly how far I can push this without getting in trouble. And that, love, is what gets me through the day.”

“You’re mad, mate,” Daniel scoffs. “Some of us actually take our work seriously around here, maybe you should try it.”

“Please,” Louis snorts, “I take my work plenty seriously.”

“You just hung up on a caller because you didn’t like their choice of music.”

“And?”

Daniel just rolls his eyes and turns back around. Louis spins in his chair a few more times before checking to see who he’s calling next. In five hours it’ll be lunchtime, and despite what he’d just told Daniel dearest, that’s really the thing getting him through the day. He thinks about his favourite sandwich as he works his way down the list, until it’s finally noon, and he can’t get out of his cube fast enough.

* * *

Louis doesn’t mind having all the attention on him, thrives on it even, just not when he’s eating, and especially not when he’s doing it so sloppily.

“What’re you lot looking at?” he mumbles around a mouthful, and it’s Louise who speaks up.

“I don’t know about everyone else,” she says, “but I’m making sure you don’t choke yourself.”

“Cheers,” he says sarcastically, “but I’m an adult. I can handle eating without supervision, thank you very much.”

“Adults don’t push people out of the way,” someone else informs him - he doesn’t know who, he still hasn’t bothered to learn the names of every single employee.

“Listen,” he replies, feeling a bit defensive now, “they were running out.” He resumes eating, not caring that he looks like a right slob hunched over his tray like this, stuffing his face. But he’s hungry, okay? It’s not his fault he had nothing in for breakfast this morning. (Except that it is, and he really needs to stop by the shop on his way home tonight. And the pet store, because Clifford’s food container is looking a bit empty.)

The rest of Louis’ day goes quite a bit slower than he’d like it to, if he’s honest. Although he’s someone who could literally talk someone’s ear off - and he’s pretty sure he has before, actually - talking to strangers on the phone for a good seven hours is exhausting in the worst way. Once he finishes his final call of the day, he can’t talk to anyone else, it’s just how he is. Luckily for him, his co-workers are familiar with this, and even more familiar with his reaction to people who ignore this particular quirk, so no one forces him to make any small talk as he packs up his bag and heads out with a quick nod in Kyle’s direction, who replies with his customary two-fingered salute.

* * *

Louis stops by the pet shop first on his way home, because he doesn’t feel like checking his balance right now, and Cliffords’s food is a bigger priority. Louis’ content to eat Pot Noodles for a week if it means his dog eats well. Sometimes he wonders if Clifford is aware just how spoiled he truly is, and then remembers that he’s a dog, and also hasn’t known life to be any other way, seeing as Louis had gotten him as a puppy the day he moved to Holmes Chapel.

He’d just arrived in the village in his hand-me-down Ford Ka when he passed by a sign advertising labradoodle puppies. That fact alone was enough to make him double-take, and the word “<b>FREE” in all caps at the bottom of the cardboard convinced him to stop.

Cliff’s grown an insane amount since then, though he’s still convinced that he can easily fit on Louis’ lap for a cuddle. Not that Louis minds, even if his dog is larger than he is and dwarfs him with little effort. Having Clifford also makes his one-bedroom flat slightly less depressing, even if he is a bit pathetic for choosing to spend Friday nights with his dog instead of going out.

It’s not that he doesn’t have people to go out with, but they’re all work friends, people Louis would rather not see pissed - or be pissed in front of, if he’s honest. Last night had been the first time he’d gone out for a drink with the intention of hooking up with someone in ages, and it was all thanks to Harry bloody Styles that he’d gone home alone. Then again, considering what a loser that guy (Donovan?) turned out to be, maybe Louis should be grateful.

Except that would mean being indebted to Harry Styles, which Louis is absolutely against. He absentmindedly wonders if Harry Styles had really gone home with David (Duke?), and then scowls, because he shouldn’t care. Besides, it’s not like he could have prevented it, as much as he would have liked to. No, no, that’s not right. He wouldn’t have liked to, he doesn’t care - he _doesn’t_.

The bell above the door jingles as he enters the shop, and the woman behind the till smiles at him. He manages a small one in return, and hurries to the dog food aisle before she can engage him in conversation.

Louis groans when he notices the brand of food he normally buys is almost 15 quid for a bag now. It’s so much, and he wouldn’t get it if he thought Clifford would eat anything else, but he won’t, so Louis groans again as he grabs a bag and carries it to the front, grumbling to himself the whole time. This fucking food shouldn’t cost so much; really, he should get some sort of frequent shopper discount, because it’s not his fault his dog eats so bloody much.

If Louis ruled the world, no one would have to choose between feeding their pet or feeding themselves. Or feeding themselves and keeping the heat on. Or feeding themselves and anything, really. Louis would do a lot of things if he ruled the world, he could improve so much. He could do things like preventing Harry Styles from showing up in the same pub as him. Or even in the same _country_. God, that’s tempting; he really wants that. A Harry Styles-less existence.

He allows himself to indulge those thoughts the rest of the way home before finally coming to the conclusion that ruling the world seems like a lot of responsibility, and Harry Styles just isn’t worth it.

He’s _not_.

(And the voice in the back of his mind telling him he doesn’t actually want a Harry Styles-less existence can fuck right off, thank you very much.)

* * *

Harry hums along to the music coming from his Bluetooth speakers as he mashes bananas with a fork. They’re the perfect texture, soft enough to easily squash, but not so soft that they’ve gone brown; he doesn’t care for the overly-sweet tang overripe bananas add to his pancakes, so it’d been a pleasant surprise this morning to find the bananas he’d purchased last week in this perfect condition.

The griddle beeps twice from its spot on the marble countertop, letting Harry know that it’s reached the desired pancake-making temperature, and Harry shushes it.

“Not yet, I’m still making the batter,” he says, and hears a giggle from the kitchen doorway.

“Daddy, why do you always talk to the kitchen appliances?” his daughter asks, rubbing her eyes sleepily. “You know they won’t answer you.”

“Do I?” he teases. “Do you? How do you know they aren’t answering me right this minute?”

Beau rolls her still bleary eyes, and hops up onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar. She rests her elbows on the table and puts her small chin in her hands. “Are you going to make bacon?”

Harry winces. “I think we’re out.” Correction: he _knows_ they’re out. He’d used the last of Beau’s favourite veggie bacon to make a midnight snack last night, completely forgetting that he’d promised her a proper breakfast for her first day of soccer school.

“Did you eat it all again?”

“It was the bacon thief,” he informs her gravely. “Struck again last night— Truly a tragedy of epic proportions. I’ve tried to tell him to stop, but he’s insatiable.”

Beau rolls her eyes again, used to her father’s antics. Harry grins at her and sticks his tongue out. “D’you want sausage instead?”

She shakes her head. “Just pancakes, please. And can I make the juice?”

Harry, having anticipated her request, had cut all the oranges in their fridge in half before she’d woken up and lined them up next to the electric juicer. “Of course, Bo-bear. Go ahead.”

Beau hops off the stool, slipping slightly as her socked feet come in contact with the wood floor. Harry watches, ready to catch her if she starts to fall, but she rights herself before he even has to move.

He turns back to his bananas, giving them one final mash before dumping them into a bright orange bowl already containing almond milk, rapeseed oil, and an egg. The music on his playlist changes from Joni Mitchell to an old Status Single song, and he cringes.

“Did you add this?” he asks Beau, who sticks another orange half in the juicer in lieu of an answer. Harry cringes harder as his own voice drifts out of the speakers, and he abandons his whisking to change the song.

“I wanted to hear that,” Beau whines, and Harry looks skyward as he switches it back. His daughter sings along as she finishes making the juice, smiling happily to herself and Harry supposes his sacrifice is worth it, then. Even if it means having to listen to his old band’s music. Especially this particular song. So many memories are attached to it, some good, most bad, but he can’t tell Beau any of that, because she’s only nine and doesn’t need to know the graphic details of Harry’s past.

Not that she couldn’t find plenty about it online. Unfortunately. Not all of it true, obviously - not that that little detail meant anything to the general public. This isn’t the only reason Harry discourages her from using the computer for anything other than schoolwork, and finding the answer to any question she has that Harry can’t answer on his own. (Which, as it turns out, is quite a lot.) It’s not the only reason, but it definitely is the largest one.

The longer he can keep her in the dark, the better.

By the time he’s finished making the pancakes, Beau’s already consumed 90% of the orange juice, and Harry pretends to scowl at her as he gulps down the remaining half glass. He’s not mad, not really, but it’s delicious and he does wish he could have a bit more, but they can always pick up more oranges on the way home this afternoon.

The clock on the dishwasher lets him know that they’ve still got a few hours before Beau’s first day of soccer school at the Holmes Chapel football club, which is good, because he’s still got to pack her bag, and he can’t remember if he’d moved her kit from the washer to the dryer last night.

His question is answered when Beau sits down at the table across from him, and he notices a triangle of the red and black jersey peeking out from underneath her fluffy pink bathrobe. He smiles and shakes his head at her eagerness to play.

“Are you excited about today?” he asks her, and she nods with a mouth full of pancake.

Harry watches her chew and swallow before answering properly. “You know I am, Daddy.”

“I do,” he replies, voice teasing, “so excited that you just had to put on your uniform first thing, hmm?”

“No,” she giggles, “I slept in it.”

He rolls his eyes, grinning affectionately. “That was silly of you.”

Beau sticks her tongue out at him, and he returns the gesture before starting on his own plate of food. They eat in silence after that, both too preoccupied with their food to continue the conversation.

After, Harry lets Beau go out into the garden to “practice”, which mostly consists of her kicking the ball into the fence so hard it shakes. Harry winces at a particularly hard one, and makes a mental note to apologise to Ms Jones when he sees her next, as they’re not exactly being neighbourly at the moment. But Harry doesn’t have the heart to stop Beau; her excitement is contagious. He knows how much she’s been looking forward to living in what she’s dubbed a “normal place”, and Harry is determined to give her every normal childhood experience his tiny hometown has to offer, including taking classes at the local soccer school. That had been at the top of her list for a while, as none of the places they lived previously had a proper one.

(He still doesn’t know why the Saturday classes are called “Soccer School”, though. He supposes it must be for the alliteration. It’s the only reasonable explanation.)

* * *

Two hours, and one car ride later, Beau’s still kicking a football around, but now she’s on a proper pitch joined by the other girls in her class as they wait for the class to begin. Beau kicks the ball particularly hard, causing the other girls to scatter and the ball to go sailing.

Beau turns to him, looking apologetic. “Whoops.”

“Kicked it a little too hard there, huh?” Harry chuckles.

“I’m really, really good at football,” she says proudly.

Harry rolls his eyes affectionately. “You really, really are, Bo-bear,”’ he says, before running off to fetch the ball for her.

He’d intended to kick it back to the group of children, but at the last minute he notices another person in front of him, and because Harry is well, Harry, he manages to trip over the ball - quite fantastically, he might add - and stumble into the man in front of him. They land in a heap on the ground, Harry on top. He bites his lip and blushes. And then blushes even more when he realises who he’s just fallen on.

It’s Louis.

Harry feels a bit breathless, and his mouth has gone dry enough that he can’t seem to form words. Not that there are any coming to mind to even bother saying. Harry is literally struck dumb. He’s getting a do-over, the universe has taken pity on him and is giving him a second chance with this man. And Harry intends to make the most of it.

Once he gets off the ground, that is.

He stands up without using his hands, intending to help the other man up but he’s already standing before Harry can even extend a hand.

“So, do you always assault people with your body?” he asks, and…oh. It’s a sentence that could be quite flirtatious in this situation, but it’s not. The man sounds angry, which doesn’t make sense. Harry didn’t even hurt him - at least, he doesn’t think so.

“I… no? You’re just lucky,” he tries, and when he only receives a blank look in response, he asks, “did I hurt you? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” Louis snaps, and Harry frowns.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

Harry’s about to ask him which child is his when the other man jogs off without another word. Harry watches him go, and continues watching as he rounds the children up to begin the class - not a parent then, but the coach. Harry feels like a bit of creep for staring the way he is, so he finally tears his eyes away from Louis ( _Coach_ Louis) and heads to the stands where the other parents are sitting. He sits somewhere in the middle, not close enough to strike up a conversation with anyone, but that doesn’t stop some of the mums from gravitating towards him and chatting him up anyway.

Harry makes polite small-talk with them while simultaneously trying to keep track of Beau’s performance on the field, and is more than a little relieved when the class finally comes to an end, which he feels a bit bad about, because it’s his daughter’s thing, and she’s been excited about it ever since they found out about the school, but Harry hadn’t been in the mood to make friends this morning - something unusual for him, if he’s honest - and he’s just tired now.

He’s not too tired, however, to try talking to Louis again.

He catches Louis by the cooler full of juice cartons, ignoring Louis’ judgemental look as he fishes one out for himself after handing one to his daughter. He takes a long pull on the juice carton just as Louis says, “My sisters were always big fans of yours.” Harry promptly begins to choke, barely registering Beau hitting him on the back as he frantically tries to figure out how Louis knows.

“What are you talking about?” she asks Louis, and his eyes flick to meet Harry’s, who works to send a silent message to the other man. _Don’t_ , he thinks as loud as he can. _Please, don’t_.

Louis nods minutely, and claps excitedly as he addresses Beau. “So, little miss, what brings you to our fine pitch today?”

She looks at him like she doesn’t understand the question. “I’m here for soccer school.”

“Of course you are,” Louis replies, not missing a beat.

“Are you done with your juice, love?” Harry asks her, and his daughter presents him with her finished carton. He takes it with a tight smile and ruffles her hair. “Why don’t you go and play with the other kids for a minute while Daddy talks to your coach. Is that okay?”

“Sure,” Beau replies easily, and runs off before Harry can say anything else.

“She’s pretty down-to-earth for the daughter of a popstar, isn’t she?” Louis asks once Beau is out of earshot, and watches in amusement as Harry goes pale at the reminder.

“How did you know it was me?” he whispers. And then, much softer, “How much to keep it quiet?”

Louis looks offended. “Are you trying to pay me off or something, mate? Why would you assume I want your money? And how dare you accuse me of…” he trails off. “I don’t know what you’re accusing me of, but… Just don’t. I’m not going to tell anyone, okay?”

Harry stays silent during Louis’ short rant, and just nods once he’s done.

“Okay. Okay, I believe you.”

“Good.”

The air is tense around them, the awkward quiet eventually pierced by Beau calling out for her father. Harry whips around in time to see her racing across the field towards a pair of girls kicking a ball around, and cheers as she manages to score a goal. He turns back, intending to pick up his conversation with Louis, and is disappointed to find that the other man is gone.

* * *

Louis’ drive home from the club seems to take longer than the one there, like he can’t get away quick enough, no matter how fast he goes. He’s going to be off for the rest of today, he knows it, and it’s all Harry Styles’ fault.

Clifford rushes him as soon as he steps through the door, and Louis grunts as he’s knocked back against the wall.

“Whoa, boyo,” he grunts, “careful there, yeah?”

Clifford doesn’t answer, obviously, and doesn’t back up either as he snuffles his nose into Louis’ jacket pockets, looking for a treat.

“You know as well as I do that there’s nothing there,” Louis says, shaking his head at Clifford’s behaviour, a bad habit Louis had accidentally caused the week he decided he was going to train Clifford to obey him. It hadn’t worked, and now Clifford routinely checked him for goodies despite the fact that it’s been months since Louis’ pockets contained anything resembling a dog biscuit.

Apparently accepting the fact that he’s not getting anything to eat, Clifford moves away and Louis gently pushes him to the side so he can enter his flat properly. He sets his bag next to the doorway, hangs up his jacket, and sighs as he looks around his living room. It’s a right mess, he’s been too tired to do much cleaning lately and for the first time today Louis is almost glad he’s had such a crap morning. Because when Louis gets stressed and upset enough, he cleans.

Perfect timing.

Deciding he doesn’t want to deal with preparing lunch, Louis unlocks his phone to order a pizza. The person on the other end of the line sounds like they’re judging his order, just like they always seem to, but Louis ignores them, just as he always does, orders a coke and finishes the call, stroking Clifford’s fuzzy head as he does so.

He searches for a station on the radio, eventually giving up and settling on his usual, and sets about his tasks.

* * *

Louis’ halfway through rearranging his bookshelf when the door buzzes, and Clifford barks to let him know. Louis turns to get the door and manages to bump one of the stacks with his hip. Everything clatters to the floor just as the song ends and the DJ reminds him exactly what song he’d been dancing his arse off to. (Late Status Single. Off their last album. He doesn’t know how he remembers this.)

He bends over to pick up the fallen books just as the door buzzes again and Clifford begins to bark louder. Patting down his pockets to make sure his wallet is in there, Louis heads for the door, working to keep Clifford out of the way with his hip.

“One pizza with…” the kid squints at the recipe, “double cheese, ham, pepperoni and jalapeños?”

“That’s me,” he says.

“Here you go.”

“Cheers, mate.” Louis pays and takes the box inside, closing the door with the same hip he’d used to keep Clifford back before. Clifford gets in his way again, of course, because he’s got pizza, and Clifford loves pizza. Maybe even more than he loves Louis. (Louis doesn’t like to consider that fact.)

He settles down on the sofa to eat, and considers turning the radio back on before he remembers how it betrayed him earlier.

Louis is aware that not everyone holds grudges like this against their sister’s childhood idols, and he’s also aware that most people would have been flattered and even pleased to be personally serenaded by Harry Styles. There has to be some reason this particular man has managed to get under Louis’ skin the way he has. Louis hasn’t been this annoyed by someone since he spent two years hating Oliver Smith before he realised he was being flirted with, and the rush of emotion he got when he saw Oliver was because he fancied him.

Maybe Louis fancies Harry Styles.

He snorts so loud he scares Clifford, and then nearly drops the pizza box. Shaking his head at the situation, Louis laughs to himself, because of course he doesn’t fancy Harry Styles. The very idea is as preposterous as it is false.

Fancying Harry Styles. _God_.

The rest of his evening is relaxing, and by the time Louis goes to bed that night he’s nearly over the events of that morning.

(That is, until he turns on his car radio on the way to work only to hear H _arry Fucking Styles_ coming through the speakers.)

(He can’t turn it off fast enough.)

* * *

Harry’s sure that when his Mum showed up for her only granddaughter’s 9th birthday party, she didn’t expect her adult son to drag her away from the festivities to beg her for advice.

(He’s desperate, okay?)

“I need help with something,” He tells her slowly. “Well, someone, really. There’s this man, see, and—”

“This wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with the boy from the pub, would it?”

“What?” Harry laughs nervously, “what boy? What pub? I don’t know any boys or any pubs, Mummy; don’t be ridiculous.”

“Gemma told me all about it, dear, you don’t have to lie to me.”

“Did she? Interesting.” He’s already planning what he’s going to say to his sister once he gets her alone, something starting with “Tattle tale” and ending with “Stop gossiping about me to Mum” that will most likely fall on deaf ears, but it’s more for his own satisfaction than anything, so the wasted time will be worth it. Plus, he kind of likes that Gemma’s so invested in the Louis thing, because it means she thinks it’s a Thing, and if she thinks it’s a Thing then the chances of it becoming a Real Thing increase. She’s just got an eye for that sort of stuff.

But, wait, that’s not his plan. Harry’s beyond wanting to hook up with a fit boy. He wants to befriend said fit boy, and make that fit boy smile at him for more than five minutes. Preferably genuinely. Possibly na— No. _No_. If Operation Befriend Louis is to be successful, then Harry has to push away any thoughts about the man that aren’t purely platonic.

“Gemma says you fancy him.”

“I do not _fancy_ him. I just think he’s a bit fit and has nice eyes and his smile is like the sun and he makes me laugh a lot even when he’s making fun of me. But I don’t want to date him; I want to be his friend. But I don’t know how, and I need your help.”

He really does, especially if he’s going to get through the rest of Beau’s soccer school session with Louis. Because while he’s not narcissistic, he doesn’t _need_ people to like him, it’s just preferable to the alternative. The alternative, that, before last Saturday, he hadn’t truly experienced since he was 16 and put in a band with three other boys.  
People have always loved Harry. Perhaps a little too much at times - the devotion bordering on obsession was more creepy than cute, if he’s honest, but people have always loved Harry. Even as a child, he was constantly referred to as “a little charmer,” and that charm stuck with him throughout his life. His charm became his “thing” in Status Single. Harry Styles: The Charmer.

And, okay, he knows that people dislike him; it’s impossible to exist in the public eye and _not_ get hate, but this is his bloody hometown. Nobody hates Harry in Holmes Chapel. Except maybe the guy from the other night. And the person who’d shouted obscenities yesterday morning when he accidentally cut them up. The girl whose skirt he lifted in Year 4 probably doesn’t have fond memories of him - she also most likely doesn’t live in the village anymore, so Harry’s not really sure that counts, but he does know that with the exception of these three people, nobody hates Harry in Holmes Chapel.

Except maybe Louis.

Logically, Harry knows that every individual is entitled to their own free will, and he can’t actually force someone to be his friend - not to mention doing so would set a horrid example for his terribly impressionable daughter, but bloody hell, why doesn’t Louis like him? It has to go beyond their first meeting, because although he understands the point Gemma made, there’s no way someone could feel so strongly about a little public serenade but he’d end up on their shit list.

Once again, Louis appears to be the exception.

Not for long though, because Harry’s determined to win Louis over. It’s not even about him being fit anymore - although Harry can’t deny he wouldn’t like a snog - it’s about his pride. Because people have always loved Harry. And, dammit, someday Louis will too.

(As a friend, of course.)

He listens intently as his mum shares her wisdom, and once she’s done, he feels more confident than he has since first laying eyes on Louis the week before. One glance at Beau reminds him that they’re meant to be on their way to her birthday dinner. Luckily for him, she’s already ready to go, eagerly bouncing on her toes in a circle around a very Done Gemma. Apparently, while he was talking to his Mum, Gemma had promised Beau she could have ice cream after dinner - in addition to her cake - and since it’s his daughter’s birthday he decides he’ll allow it.

Plus, Harry could really go for a cone, and he feels better about the treat if he’s got Beau as an excuse. That’s the price of growing up, Harry supposes. Nothing’s a treat anymore, at least not without guilt. It’s been a while since he’s allowed himself to have something just because, and it’ll be a while longer until he does it again. But Harry doesn’t mind.

(Much.)

* * *

They’re walking around with their cones after their meal when Beau shouts excitedly, nearly causing Harry to drop his ice cream.

“Look!” she cries. “It’s Louis!”

Sure enough, not too far ahead is the back of a very familiar football coach.

“Yup,” Harry confirms, “that’s him, alright.”

Beau tugs at the hem of his shirt. “We should follow him,” she says.

“I don’t think that’s the best idea, love. He’s probably busy.”

She pouts. “But he doesn’t look busy.”

“Beau,” he says like a warning. “We’re going to be polite and let the man shop in peace, okay?”

“Okay.” The sigh that follows is one familiar to parents everywhere, the one that means: “I’m going to listen, but I’m not going to like it, and I’m going to make sure you are aware of this the entire bloody time.” Harry - who is 100% _not_ a fan of that sigh, stops walking.

“We’re not going to have any of that,” he tells her, feeling his mother’s stare behind him. He’s been nervous about being home, under her watchful eye, afraid that she’ll eventually tell him he’s doing this all wrong. (In reality, he knows that she wouldn’t, and that he _is_ doing a good job, but that worry is still there.)

“Sorry, Daddy,” Beau says, and Harry tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear before it can find its way into her ice cream.

“It’s fine, love. Let’s just finish our ice cream and head home, yeah? We can all watch a film together before it’s time for bed.”

That promise seems to do the trick, as Beau immediately drops the subject in favour of trying to pick what film to watch, a near-impossible feat, as his daughter has never been able to pick a favourite anything in her life. Still, the point was to distract her, and he succeeded, and the hour or so it will take to finally choose a film will be worth it.

Even if it means he didn’t get to talk to Louis.

Which is fine. It’s totally fine. Like he told Beau, Louis looked busy - it definitely wasn’t because he was nervous. Not that Harry doesn’t get nervous, just… Well, most people don’t make Harry nervous the way Louis does.

And, okay, maybe he was a little nervous. Maybe a bit more than that.

Maybe Louis makes him simultaneously want to declare his love in a public place and run away and never look back.

But it’s fine. It’s totally fine.

(Probably.)

* * *

Tomorrow Beau will be attending a proper school for the first time in her life. The exact one he’d gone to, actually. Harry finds that thought amusing. It’s one of the main reasons he’d picked Holmes Chapel as their permanent home base - a fact he plans to never ever share with his mum, lest she subject him to a tearful conversation about the importance of being near your family. (He’d been on the receiving end of that particular speech the night he told her he was leaving. It’s not something he’d care to repeat.)  
  
Harry had loved his time at Holmes Chapel Primary School, holds many fond memories from those years, and he hopes that Beau’s experience will be as pleasant as his own. When they toured the school grounds two weeks back, he’d had a blast pointing out all the things he remembered about the place to his daughter. Even though so much had changed since he’d attended, there was still enough nostalgia attached to get him excited.

He’s only really worried about one thing, because the biggest downside of them moving so frequently is that it’s made it hard for Beau to learn how to make friends. It’s not that she doesn’t want to befriend the other kids, exactly, it’s just that her interests don’t really line up with the interests of a normal - Harry despises that word with a passion - nine year old. And she’s not shy, she’s the exact opposite of shy, but she comes on very strong, too overwhelming for a new person. It breaks Harry’s heart sometimes, because he remembers that too. The loneliness.

His mum had been there for him through all of that, just as he plans to be there for Beau should problems arise. He knows he’s most likely overthinking this - she hasn’t even set foot in the building yet for fuck’s sake, but if there’s one thing he’s learned from being a parent, it’s that if there’s something to worry about, fret or feel guilty over, he’ll find it.

(It’s one of his least useful talents.)

He sticks his head into Beau’s room and finds that she’s still awake.

“You’re meant to be sleeping,” he reminds her.

“Can’t,” she says, and Harry chuckles fondly.

“Too excited?”

She nods.

“Feeling nervous at all?”

She shakes her head quickly, then hesitates for a moment before nodding. “A little bit.”

“That’s fine,” he assures her. “It’s okay to be nervous. I’m nervous too.”

“Really?”

He nods. “Really, really.”

“Really really really?”

Harry winks and ruffles his daughter’s hair. “Really really really,” he confirms with a grin.

Beau looks slightly more convinced after that, and Harry adjusts her duvet as she nestles her head into her pillow.

“Do you want Mr Bear?”

“Please,” she says, because even though she claims that she’s too old to still be sleeping with a stuffed toy, Harry knows that Mr Bear spends more time in her bed than he does on the shelf.

Harry fetches the toy, taking a moment to run his thumb over the worn fur on the old bear’s leg. It’s worn through in places, patches of white visible through the light brown fluff. Countless surgeries have been performed over the years, and as a result one of Mr Bear’s legs is permanently stuck at a rather uncomfortable angle. Beau never seems to mind, though, and that’s all that really matters.

He runs his eyes over the other toys on the shelf, all reminders of his daughter’s childhood that Harry wouldn’t trade for the world. Because as much as he’s been craving stability, nothing on earth comes close to topping everything they’ve experienced these past nine years.

“Mr Bear, please,” Beau complains, drawing Harry out of his thoughts, and he remembers why he’s standing there in the first place.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he apologises, “Daddy’s distracted tonight.”

“I forgive you,” she says, and Harry’s heart feels full as he hands her the bear.

(He wants to ask his mum if it’d been like this for her, if every one of his milestones filled to the brim with this emotion, this pride that threatens to spill over at any moment.) (He suspects he knows the answer.)

Beau helps snap Harry out of his melancholy retrospective with a, “Goodnight, Daddy.” He echoes the sentiment before leaning down to kiss her forehead. When he goes to turn off the light, he can hear her speaking softly to Mr Bear, and he thinks it’s about tomorrow, but he doesn’t want to eavesdrop, so he flips the switch and closes the door softly, wondering briefly when he let himself become such a sop.

(He reckons he knows the answer, but it’s easier to pretend this is an uncommon occurrence.)


	2. Chapter 2

Harry’s Mum and Gemma had stayed long after Beau had gone to sleep, long enough that they’d ended up staying over, because even though his childhood home wasn’t very far from his new one, he still felt bad making them leave at such a late hour.

The two of them had tried to bring up Louis again, but he’d refused to discuss the subject any further, so the conversation had turned to Gemma’s work, and then random topics until they were yawning and drowsy. No one mentioned Louis again, though Harry sort of wishes they’d pushed him to talk, because _not_ bringing him up had been exceedingly difficult. Somehow, he’d managed.

Harry’s always been an emotional person. He wears his heart on his sleeve, not afraid to let the people around him know how he’s feeling, how much he cares about them. It’s something that he’d worked to hide during his Status Single days, because if you show too much emotion in the industry, if you let others pick up on any weakness whatsoever, you’re screwed. You’ve set yourself up for failure, heartbreak, and manipulation. So Harry’d learned to keep his feelings hidden away, learned to keep _himself_ \- his real self - hidden away, and it’d been that way right up until he saw Beau for the first time through the glass of the hospital nursery. In that moment, he knew he’d never be able to fully hide his emotions again, because he loved his daughter so fully and fiercely from that very first moment that he knew it would be obvious to everyone he met.

It’s one of the main reasons he’d ducked out of the limelight immediately after adopting her. That, and he was so fucking sick of being famous at that point that he really didn’t see any other option but to run. So, that’s what he did.

He always figured it’d get easier, that the only time he’d cry on her first day of school was her very first day, three years ago when she started primary school. Well, technically, elementary school, as they’d lived in the States at the time, on a small island off the coast of Massachusetts. Harry’s still not quite sure how they’d ended up in Nantucket, but it was one of his favourite places they’d lived in, and the place they’d stayed the longest. If it weren’t for the rapidly increasing tourist population, one that was already large enough to make spending the summer months there stressful, he doesn’t think they ever would have left. But it only took one person recognising him in the middle of the grocery store to send him running.

Those were a good two years.

From there, they moved to Singapore, where Beau attended an international school mainly filled with the children of Expats. After Singapore came Montana, then Norway, then Brazil, where, even though they only stayed for the summer (well, winter, really), Harry never wanted to leave. And, after one of the best - and coldest - summers of his life, they’d ended up right back in Holmes Chapel.

Four schools in four years, four first days, and Harry still finds himself a blubbering mess as he says his goodbyes to Beau outside her classroom. He senses Gemma standing behind him, and she’d deny it fiercely if he said anything, but he knows she’s getting a bit emotional herself. Beau is the only one of the three who seems completely calm - Harry supposes one of them has to - and she’s bouncing on her heels in anticipation of her first day. The heel of her sparkly red mary jane squeaks on the linoleum, and Gemma covers her ears.

“Fuck, I forgot how much I hated that sound,” she frowns.

Harry wonders absently if she’s referring to the squeak; it would make sense, seeing as she’s not used to the noise in the way he is. It’s not worth calling her out over, though, so he says nothing in favour of hugging Beau tightly and dropping a kiss on the top of her head.

“Have a good day, yeah?”

“I will,” she reassures him, and he wishes that was enough to soothe the worry. It helps enough, however, that he’s able to let her go without getting teary. (Well, too teary. He’s an appropriate amount of teary at the moment, thank you very much.)

When he finally looks away, once the Year Four classroom door is shut, he finds Gemma looking at him with a pensive expression on her face.

“I’m not going to pretend like I get it,” she says, “but I think I could. Eventually.”

“Not everyone does, Gems. And there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“ _Obviously_. Just…being the Cool Aunt is fun, but it’s not the same, you know?”

Harry’s been a godfather to enough children to know exactly what she means, and he wraps an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close. The fact that she lets him - without any sarcasm, either - is a testament to how much this realisation is affecting her. “Yeah,” he says. “I know what you mean.”

Gemma doesn’t bring up the subject again, and he doesn’t say anything as she not-so-subtly peeks through the classroom windows out of the corner of her eye. Part of him thinks this is a result of Beau returning to her life after so many years, that she’s not actually got baby fever, but, he supposes, stranger things have happened. Which is fine, because Harry’s no stranger to strange, and he’ll be there for his sister no matter what.

Eventually, she shrugs his arm away, but it’s not aggressive. He just barely catches her wink before she takes off down the now deserted hallway, shoes squeaking the entire length. Harry laughs, and knows this particular first day will stick with him for a while; a happy memory amongst the bittersweet.

He’s probably imagining the sound of Beau laughing then, but it sticks with him as he runs after his sister, his own laughter drowning out any lingering sadness as he runs until he can’t, until he’s breathless and doubled over on the school field while Gemma teases him mercilessly.

It’s the best morning he’s had in a long time.

* * *

Gemma’s talked him into going to the park with her, claiming she needed some new pictures for her blog. He’d agreed mostly because going back to a quiet house sounded too difficult at the moment, and a little bit because he knows why Gemma’s been spending so much time in Holmes Chapel lately. He doesn’t mind, of course; he’s missed her too. And he knows his mum likes having both of her children close again. Everyone wins, even if Gemma being here means being bothered about his thing with Louis. (Or lack of a thing, really.)

“He hates me, he really does. Like, the all-encompassing hate that I can feel him shooting at me whenever we’re together. I know we’ve only properly talked once, but it’s true. And I’ve got no idea why— Don’t say it’s because of the song,” he says quickly when she opens her mouth to interrupt. “I know the song probably didn’t help, but, like, this seems like something else. I’d barely said two words to him before he was brushing me off. And it’s beyond a normal amount of dislike, he _hates_ me.”

Gemma raises her perfectly plucked eyebrow and sighs. “You’ve always had such a flair for the dramatic.”

Harry stands up straight and clutches his chest in mock offence. “How dare you accuse me of being dramatic. I’ve never been dramatic one day in my life.”

“No one likes a liar, H.”

“No one likes a bully, Gems,” he shoots back, hefting his camera bag higher on his shoulder. Gemma rolls her eyes, but doesn’t say anything more on the subject. Harry takes advantage of her silence to check out his surroundings, searching for the perfect place to capture the portrait of Gemma.

The park is gorgeous, and he decides he’s going to bring Beau here sometime this week while the weather is still nice. Maybe they can have a picnic. She’d like that, he thinks. He gets so caught up in planning the menu for their hypothetical picnic that he misses Gemma calling his name.

“What about here?” she asks, and Harry shakes his head.

“Light’s not right,” he informs her.

“Well, make it work, because this is the spot I’ve chosen. You told me I could pick anywhere, and I choose here.”

“Gemma—” he starts, and then gives up when he sees the stubborn look on her face. “Fine. Here it is.”

She gives him a smug smile, and then squints at something behind him. “Hey, isn’t that Louis?”

Harry’s head snaps up so quickly that he nearly gives himself whiplash, but instead of Louis, he’s only greeted by his sister’s giant shit-eating grin.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t. You love me, little brother. And you love Louis.” She says it so matter-of-factly, like it’s really that simple. Like Louis doesn’t visibly recoil at the mere mention of Harry’s name.

“I don’t,” he says. “I don’t love Louis.”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

“Methinks you should— Holy shit, it really is Louis.”

“What? Where?”

Harry points to the far field, where he’s just spotted Louis kicking around a football with some other lads.

“Whoa, it really is him.”

“I told you!” Harry freezes then, because it really is Louis. Bloody hell, is he supposed to do something? Should he wave? No, he’s too far away for that. Plus, he’d risk Louis possibly ignoring him, and that is not something he wants to happen when his sister is here to witness it. (Preferably, it would never happen, but having Gemma here would only make it that much worse.)

Better not, then.

“Go say hello, arsehole.”

“What? No! I can’t go over there, Gems, are you mad?”

“Why not? You had no problem trying to get his attention last time.”

“And you know exactly how well that went, don’t you?”

“Well, at least this time you aren’t ruining the poor lad’s life.”

“I did not _ruin_ his life, oh my _God_. I saw a cute boy, I sang to the cute boy. It used to be my thing! How was I supposed to know he wouldn’t like it?”

“Because no one likes that shit, H. You only got away with it then because you were famous.”

Harry frowns. “That’s not true.”

“Of course it is. The world lets you get away with a lot when you’re famous; you know this better than anyone.”

“Apparently not,” he mutters to himself, so caught up in his pout that he doesn’t notice Gemma waving in Louis’ direction.

“Hi!” she shouts. “Hey, Louis!”

Louis looks up then, and Harry wasn’t expecting a smile, but he wasn’t quite expecting a scowl either.

“You are the worst,” he growls.

“I think you meant to say the best, and “thank you, Gemma,” as well as— What the fuck are you doing?”

Harry finishes gathering his camera equipment. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m running away.”

“Don’t do that.”

“I’m going to.” He’s running out of time; Louis’ walking in their direction, Gemma’s tugging on his shirtsleeve excitedly, and Harry does what he does best.

He runs.

 

Louis wonders if it should concern him that he’s not the least bit shocked by Harry’s reaction. Based on what he knows about the man, and what kind of things he’s experienced personally, it’s only about a three point five on the Harry Styles Weirdness Scale - barely even a blip.

It does nothing to lessen his annoyance.

In his haste to get away, he’s left someone behind. The woman in front of him resembles Harry enough that Louis figures they must be related, and his suspicions are confirmed when she says, “Hi, I’m Gemma. I’m the normal one in the family, and I know all about you.”

Louis’ scowl falls. “Louis.”

“I just said I knew who you were?”

“Harry’s told you about me?”

“Something like that.”

“Do I want to know what that means?”

“Probably not.”

Her cryptic answers don’t exactly back up her claims of normality, but Louis’ too polite to say anything about it; it’s not her fault she’s got Harry Styles for a brother, no reason to make her life any worse, he thinks. “What were the two of you doing here, anyway?” he asks.

“Taking pictures,” she replies. “I asked Harry to help me get a good natural-looking one for my blog, and we’re doing it this morning because Beau’s not home.”

“Oh? Where is she?”

Gemma raises an eyebrow. “At school?”

“Right, yeah, that would make sense,” Louis says, and he’s extremely grateful when he hears someone calling him back to the footie game, because he can’t help but feel like Gemma is sizing him up, her gaze just as intense and searching as her brother’s - only hers seems to be deliberate. “I’ve got to…” he points to the field. “I’ve got to go back there now.”

“See you around, Louis,” she says, and even though Louis knows that he introduced himself not two minutes ago, it’s still jarring to hear her call him by his name. Maybe he’s just on edge because, well, anything involving Harry makes him feel that way, or maybe it’s because she and Harry have apparently discussed him.

Or maybe it’s both.

Before he can dwell too much longer on the subject, Louis throws himself back into his game, hoping the activity will erase any thoughts involving Harry, his sister, and what them talking about him could mean.

(It doesn’t.)

* * *

Louis’ had a decent week. On Monday evening he’d managed to catch his whole family for a long Skype call, and that had set the tone for the next four days. He was happy and relaxed, not even bothered by the fact that he almost lost his spot at the top of the leaderboard on Wednesday - mostly because he more than secured it in the next five minutes, showing everybody just exactly _how_ and _why_ he’s managed to stay there for so long. Friday night had been a boring night on the sofa watching Grease with Clifford and beer, but Louis hasn’t felt this relaxed in a while. Even the kids seem to be feeling his good mood, they’re all paying attention and eager to learn. Nothing can bring him down today.

(Except maybe a familiar head of brown curls blinking at him from across the pitch.)

Harry sits in the stands with the other parents, watching as Louis leads everyone through various drills and exercises. He winces when Beau catches the toe of her boot on the rim of a tyre and nearly falls, but she catches herself just in time and Harry relaxes, even more so once he sees Louis pause the drill to check on her. The sight makes his heart embarrassingly fluttery and light, because of _course_ Louis’ good with children.

(Then again, he wouldn’t be Harry’s dream guy if he weren’t.)

Once the session is finished for the day, Harry takes great care in passing out orange slices and juice cartons to all the children, only looking up when Louis approaches the area where they’re all sat enjoying their snacks.

“You guys all did really well today,” he praises the group, and the children beam orange mouthfuls of orange peel. Louis must be a mind reader, because before Harry can open his mouth to make the observation that’s on the tip of his tongue, Louis’ laughing as he says, “You lot look like monkeys.”

As if to prove his point, a chorus of whoops and grunts erupts in front of him, and Louis’ still laughing; he doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest by the development, and Harry likes him that much more for it. He hasn’t met that many people in his lifetime with patience like that.

“You’re very good with them,” Harry observes from beside Louis once everyone is distracted again.

“Helps that I’ve got, like, a million sisters at home.”

“A whole million?”

Louis nods. “A million. Or five,” he chuckles. “And you’ve just got Gemma, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Older sisters,” Louis says, like he’s well familiar with the concept, and Harry grins.

“Gemma’s great, actually. We’ve always got on really well.”

“I’ve got two older sisters.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you get along?”

“’course we do,” Louis says, oddly defensive now. “Just hard being the middle child, y’know?”

“No, I don’t. Older sister, remember?”

“Oh, right. At least you’ve just got the one, though.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “I thought you said you got along.”

“We do, it’s just… It’s just a lot sometimes. Which I also just said. What’s with the 20 questions anyway?”

“You started it.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did. You asked me the first question.”

“Well, you didn’t have to _keep_ asking them.”

“Sorry.” Harry looks down. “I won’t ask any more.”

Louis huffs. “Stop making that face.”

“What face?”

“The face like I’ve just kicked your puppy. Don’t make that face.”

“Sorry,” Harry says again, and Louis rolls his eyes.

“Fine, you can ask one more question.”

“Where are you from?”

“How do you know I’m not from here?”

“Because I know everyone from here, and I don’t know you. Where are you from?”

Louis screws up his face like he doesn’t want to answer. “Doncaster.”

“Is that where your family is? Your sisters?”

“And a brother,” he adds. “Yeah, they’re all there.”

“So you live alone?”

Louis nods.

Harry contemplates this, then admits, “When I saw you that first day, I thought you were another parent.”

Louis’ eyes go wide as he laughs. “Me? A parent?” He laughs like it’s something hilarious. “I can’t believe you thought I was a parent.”

Harry frowns, aware he’s said something wrong, but Louis seems to take pity because he stops laughing and says, “I’m 22, mate. Bit too young for parenthood.”

Harry’s heart sinks a bit, because _fuck_ , he’s so much younger. A whole eight years. Bloody-fucking-hell.

(In a perfect universe, this would be enough to quell any feelings Harry might have for the other man, but Harry doesn’t live in a perfect universe. And - 22 or not - Louis is really fucking fit.)

His shock must show on his face somehow, because Louis’ grin falters slightly before going cheeky again. “Seriously, though, what made you think that? Do I look older or something? Please tell me I don’t look like a dad; I’m too young to look like a dad. Or be a dad, even.”

“It’s not so preposterous,” Harry points out, “I was 23 when I adopted Beau, although,” he says, contemplatively, “I suppose it wouldn’t have made sense for you to have a 9 year old at your age. Still, not completely impossible, right?”

Louis’ expression changes; it’s almost like the mention of Harry’s past has triggered something negative in him, because any trace of his earlier friendliness has disappeared in the blink of an eye. So quick, it practically gives Harry whiplash. He starts as Louis stands up abruptly, his quick movement causing the papers on the bench next to him to flutter.

“Break’s over,” he tells Harry curtly, and without another word, or even a spare glance in Harry’s direction, Louis’ jogging back onto the pitch. Harry watches him go, working to squash down the part of him that’s tempted to follow. He would, probably, if he wasn’t so sure Louis would just keep running. Harry’s in fairly good shape, thank you very much, but he doesn’t fancy testing his endurance against someone that much younger. Also, he doesn’t want to sweat in front of Louis, because he’s vain like that. (Sue him.)

The remaining time passes quickly after that, and Louis doesn’t come back to talk to Harry again. It bothers Harry far more than he’d like to admit, and only makes him more determined to win the other man over. Even if it kills him.

(And it just might.)

* * *

  
Harry Styles is awfully persistent, Louis will give him that, but he just wishes Harry Styles would focus that persistence on someone, something, _anything_ that’s not Louis.

His annoyance isn’t even properly justified - he’d started whinging about it to Lottie over the phone and she’d given him so much shit he’d promptly hung up on her - and he knows this, which only just makes the situation worse. Because Harry Styles isn’t rude, isn’t mean, doesn’t kick puppies (Louis knows this only because another parent had brought one to the pitch last week and Harry had practically burst into tears and pledged his undying loyalty to the thing after accidentally tripping over it), and is just generally… _Nice_.

It makes disliking him extremely difficult, honestly. Not that Louis lets that deter him, obviously, just… Bloody hell, of course he’s a nice person. Of-fucking- _course_ Harry Styles is a fucking nice person. The fact that Harry Styles is such a bloody saint should make his dislike weigh heavy on his shoulders, only… Well, it just doesn’t. Especially not when he’s all up in Louis’ space every Saturday now. At least it’s only Saturdays, though; Louis doesn’t think he could stand seeing Harry more than once a week. No, the Harry Styles experience lasts for one day, and one day only - barely even an hour - and that’s what makes it bearable.

He’s so busy agonising over everything Harry had done yesterday - still managing to go above and beyond his listed duties (and still managing to annoy the shit out of Louis) - that he’s not paying attention to where he’s going, and only stops walking him his trolley bumps into something. Or, someone, if the _oof_ he just heard is any indication. Louis looks up just in time to see Harry Styles begin to stumble. It’s like he’s moving in slow motion - falling forward and reaching out a hand to stop himself, only he grasps the side of the shopping trolley, sending it flying into Louis’ stomach and sending him toppling to the floor.

“What the fuck was that?” Louis snaps, and Harry looks up at him sheepishly.

“To be fair,” he says, “ _you_ ran in to _me_.”

“It’s not my fault you have all the grace of a newborn giraffe.”

“Giraffes are cute.”

“That wasn’t a bloody compliment.”

“I know it wasn’t, but giraffes are still cute.”

“Yes, excellent observation there,” he says and ignores Harry’s proffered helping-hand in favour of hauling himself up off the floor using a metal shelf as leverage. It’s not the most efficient method, but it’s the one that doesn’t require touching Harry Styles so it’s good enough for Louis, really.

Harry looks like he’d like to continue the conversation, but Louis grabs his trolley and rushes off before he gets a word in, hoping and praying that Harry missed him stumbling over his own feet on his way down the aisle. (The bark of laughter he hears from behind, however, is not very reassuring on the subject.)

He’s distracted for the rest of the trip, and it takes him longer to collect his usual items because of it. (Another thing to add to the list of things Harry has done to annoy him.)

This is his third run-in with Harry that’s taken place away from the pitch - well, second, because he doesn’t think Harry knows that Louis saw them with their ice creams that night - and the fact that Harry’s presence seems to be bleeding into his regular life is maddening. It’s bad enough that he has to live in the same village as the other man, but now he runs the risk of having to _regularly_ interact with him.

Maybe he’ll just become a hermit - not an actual hermit, just one of those people who never leave their house, and has everything delivered to their door. It’s surprisingly easy to do these days, except maybe not in a village of this size. And also not when someone possesses an extremely energetic labradoodle who requires near constant walks. So, that’s out.

Maybe he should just move.

* * *

After facing two more unsuccessful weeks of Operation Befriend Louis, it’s _finally_ Saturday again, and _finally_ time for Harry to put his last, desperate, idea into action.

He loiters awkwardly a few feet away from Louis, watching as he chats with another parent. The basket feels heavy in his hands, and not just because it contains a baker's dozen of his famous banana nut muffins. In a final attempt to win Louis’ favour, he enlisted Beau’s help in making these last night after Gemma had jokingly reminded him that “the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach” and then, when Beau was temporarily distracted by the recipe, she’d leaned in and whispered “or, if that doesn’t work, the fourth and fifth rib.”

He’d elbowed her between her own fourth and fifth rib for that one, earning himself a hard pinch on the back of his arm that was thankfully also not witnessed by his daughter, because, dammit, he’d feel like a hypocrite for telling her to treat others with kindness while simultaneously wrestling with his older sister. And getting his arse beat by his older sister. (It’s not that he has any qualms about fighting women - he is a feminist, after all - she’s just scrappier and quicker and all around better at fighting.) (And better at setting a bad example for her niece.)

“Hope those muffins actually taste good,” Gemma teases him, “or else this whole mission is pointless.”

“Of course they’re good,” Harry replies haughtily. “I used to be a baker, remember?”

Gemma rolls her eyes. “Does he bring that up a lot?” she asks Beau, who nods solemnly. She snorts. “Do you want to hear a secret?” Beau nods again, and Harry suspects he knows what’s coming, but honestly, he’s not surprised considering how much Gemma’s loved to take the piss about this particular piece of Harry Styles Trivia.

Before she can spill the beans, though, he says, “I wasn’t really a baker; I just worked the till.”

“Hey! I wanted to tell her that!”

Harry sticks his tongue out childishly. “Too bad.”

“Is that true, Daddy? You weren’t really a baker?”

“I mean, I worked in a bakery. And I did help out from time to time, but no, not really.”

“Honestly, I don’t know how you kept that up for so long,” Gemma says. “You were a bloody teenager when you worked there.”

Harry shrugs. “It just kind of became a thing.”

“Yes, it did, because you kept saying it.”

“Why did you come here if all you were going to do was bully me?”

She laughs. “Trust me, little brother, you’d know if I was bullying you.”

Harry keeps his mouth shut, because she’s right, really, so he turns his attention back to the weight of the basket in his hand. He’s rather proud of himself, actually. He’d managed to find a set of cloth napkins at the shop two days prior that were covered in tiny footballs. He’d bought them under the guise of using them for soccer school snacks, but really it was because he thought Louis would find it endearing. And, god, Harry wants that. For Louis to find him endearing. Probably more than he should, considering this quest is to be his friend, not win his heart. However, that would be a bonus that Harry certainly wouldn’t object to.

No. No, he just wants to be Louis’ friend. That’s it. Friends. Platonic bros. Platonic bros who don’t kiss or cuddle or do any of the things he’s wanted to do with (and to) Louis since he first spotted the man across the pub.

He yelps when Gemma elbows him. “Here comes your man,” she says with a smirk. “And you were right, he is well fit, especially in those little white shorts.” She waggles her eyebrows suggestively and Harry frowns, rubbing at his side absent-mindedly.

“He’s not my— Oh, hi Louis.”

“Harry,” Louis says cordially, because as much as Louis seems to dislike him, he’s not a rude person. It’s one of the reasons Harry likes him so much, actually, because as long as he’s got Beau with him, he can pretend Louis’ being nice to him too. Fucking hell, when did this become his life? Using his nine year old daughter as a buffer between him and the guy who’s apparently decided they’re mortal enemies. Then again, this level of strangeness is pretty on par with Harry’s regular life, so it shouldn’t be so shocking. (Yet, somehow, it’s still shocking every time.)

Harry shuffles from side to side a bit as his nerves begin to take over. “I made muffins,” he tells Louis, and his voice is just this side of too loud. His eyes dart over to where Gemma’s standing and giving him two thumbs up that he’d think were genuinely encouraging if he didn’t know his sister.

“I thought this wasn’t your week to bring snacks.”

“They’re for you,” Harry says, because he feels the need to clarify that these are, indeed, solely for Louis. He tries not to let the fact that Louis apparently pays enough attention to know the snack schedule thrill him, even though he knows it’s perfectly normal for that to be a thing. “I made muffins for you,” he repeats, because Louis is still staring at him with a slightly incredulous expression, and Harry is even more nervous than he was before.

“Why?”

He shrugs. “Figured you might like them?”

“You don’t have to bribe me, Harry. I’m not going to tell anyone you’re here, I already told you that.”

“I’m not—” Harry flushes. “That’s not why I made them.”

“So, you’re saying you just whipped up a batch of…” Louis lifts the corner of the napkin with his pinkie, “are these banana nut?” Harry nods. “You just whipped up a dozen banana nut muffins for the hell of it?”

“Not for the hell of it,” Harry interjects. “For you.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

“Why are you always so nice to me?”

“Why would I not be nice to you?”

“Because I’m not nice to you?”

“You’re nice to me. Well, er, I mean, you’re not _not_ nice to me.”

“Does that bother you? Me not tripping over myself to be your friend the way everyone else in the entire bloody village does?”

“I…” Harry looks at a loss for words. “I don’t…” Before he gets a full sentence out, Beau appears at his side, sweaty and smiling.

“Ooh, Daddy gave you the muffins!” she exclaims happily. “You’re lucky, those are his special ones. He only makes them for very special occasions.”

 

Louis doesn’t know how to respond, as it’s only Harry he’s got a problem with, not his daughter. Jesus, just…fuck Harry Styles. How dare he go and get himself an adorable kid that Louis absolutely cannot be an arse in front of.

“Yes, thank you! Did you help make them?”

Beau nods, and now Louis feels like even more of a prick. He can’t turn these down now. Bloody Harry Styles. Bloody kiss-arse Harry Styles. Louis lifts the basket to his nose and inhales deeply. “They smell delicious, thank you!” He watches as the girl’s face stretches into a pleased smile, as Harry’s does the same, and he knows he’s not getting out of this situation easily.

Bloody Harry Styles. Bloody muffins.

Bloody hell.

* * *

Louis waits until he’s home to try the muffins. He’ll admit that it’s nice of Harry to have made them, and he wasn’t going to turn them away when Beau helped, and Beau was _right there_ , but bloody hell.

He takes the stairs up to his flat two at a time, stomping as hard as he can and muttering to himself. He misses the keyhole a total of 4 times before finally managing to open the front door and barreling his way inside. He kicks his shoes off and they go flying. One lands on his sofa and the other on his coffee table, but he doesn’t fucking care.

Why can’t Harry Styles just leave him well enough alone? It’s bloody annoying. _He’s_ bloody annoying. And fit. Not that Louis cares. Still, he must be, what, in his thirties? There’s nothing wrong with admiring the way a person has managed to age well. It definitely doesn’t mean Louis fancies him. (He couldn’t anyway, because he’s pretty sure if he allowed himself to entertain the idea of fancying Harry Styles, his teenage self might appear and roundhouse kick him in the face.)

Louis takes a tiny bite of a muffin, and scowls, because of-fucking-course it’s delicious. Of-fucking- _course_ Harry Styles is amazing at everything he does. Louis finishes the muffin, and a second, and he almost goes for a third, but stops himself - half because he’s getting full, and half because he doesn’t want to enjoy the bloody muffins.

(He feeds the third to Clifford, which is completely pointless because he ends up eating another one anyway. And the worst part is, Louis doesn’t even like bananas.)

(Fuck Harry Styles.)

* * *

The only logical thing to do - without wasting food, which Louis can’t do without a fair amount of guilt- is to bring the muffins to work and hope that no one notices that they aren’t exactly fresh. Although, considering the quality of the baked goods that are occasionally available in the breakroom, Louis figures it’ll be fine.

He sets the basket down next to the coffee machine, and within seconds his fellow employees are swarming around him, the sound apparently a signal that draws the entire bloody office into the break room. He’s not bothered in the slightest, though, as this is exactly what he wanted; he’s rid of the damn muffins, and nothing can bring him down.

Louise walks in then, looks at the offering and wrinkles her nose. “I thought we agreed the office was going gluten-free.”

“No, Louise, _you_ decided that,” Louis says, and is prepared to say more when he hears someone say Harry’s name. Well, they say Harry, but Louis’ been so preoccupied with all things Harry Styles recently that any mention of the name sets off his radar. Especially when it’s mentioned in the same sentence as his own.

When he looks over to investigate, Louis sees that there seems to be a crowd around the muffins, and he’s got no idea why Harry’s name is even coming up in conversation, because there’s absolutely no way anyone here knows who the muffins are from.

He stalks towards the small crowd. “What’s going on here, then?” He’s mainly addressing Kevin, who’s holding up a card and snickering.

When Louis finally registers what it is, his blood goes cold. The handwriting is feminine and loopy; Louis can’t read what it says from this far away even with his glasses on, but the signature is large and obvious enough.

Harry wrote him a fucking _note_.

“What do we have here? A love letter? For Louis? How interesting.”

“Give it here, Kev,” he snaps.

Kevin ignores him, and Stewart shushes everyone as Kevin begins to read the message out loud.

_Lou,_

_I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot, but I hope these muffins can help make up for the way I behaved._

_They’re sweet, just like you. :)_

_-Your friend,_

_Harry_

_p.s. You can keep the basket :)_

Louis hates Harry. He _hates_ him. Fucking hell. He wants to punch something again, he wants to shout at someone. He wants to shout at Harry for embarrassing him. (He wants to shout at Harry for holding so much power over his emotions.)

Lillian - a relatively new hire who apparently isn’t familiar with Louis’ likes and dislikes yet - grins and asks, “Is that your boyfriend?”

Mary - who has worked here just as long as Louis and is much more attuned to his likes and dislikes - rolls her eyes and snorts. “Did you miss the part where he signed it ‘your friend’?”

“Whoever it is,” Louise pipes up, earning herself no love from Louis, “they seem to be into you, Lou.”

“Yeah, _Lou_ ,” Kevin smirks. “I think the lad fancies you.”

“Piss off, all of you,” he growls, snatching the note away from Kevin. And then, because he can’t stand to be in this room for another second, he says, “I’m going home early; don’t feel well.” It’s delivered so fiercely that no one contests him, and Louis stalks off to his cubicle to gather his things with shaking hands.

He doesn’t notice the note is still clenched in his palm until he’s outside, and he rips it up into pieces, quite satisfied when the wind picks up and sends Harry’s words flying.

(If only ridding himself of the real Harry were that easy.)

* * *

Louis’ still angry on the drive home.

Leaving early won’t actually solve anything, he knows that; if anything, it’ll make matters worse, because now that Kevin knows it bothers him, the other man’s teasing will become relentless. (As if it wasn’t already.) And, okay, maybe Louis’ guilty of doing some teasing of his own, but that still doesn’t make this okay.

At least they don’t know Harry’s real identity, as that would make all of this even more humiliating than it already is. At least Harry didn’t use his full name - that’s the only good thing about the note. Even the stationary is too Harry for his taste, pretentious and posh and probably custom-made just for Harry Styles, because that sounds exactly like something Harry Styles would do.

Fucking _hell_.

Louis drives on, taking care to keep a light foot as the song changes to Sabotage by the Beastie Boys - a song that never fails to make him want to go fast, something he most definitely cannot do in the village square. He’s mumbling to himself about Harry and muffins and bloody sentimental notes when he notices the man himself walking on the pavement just ahead.

He wrenches the wheel to the left, gritting his teeth as his wheels protest with an angry squeal. The tyres bump against the kerb as he throws the car into park before stopping completely and flings the door open.

Harry’s noticed him - how could he not? - and stops walking. “Louis?”

“My co-workers read the note you left,” Louis hisses.

Harry wrinkles his brow. “How did your co-workers find it?”

“Because I brought the muffins to the office, obviously. I don’t like banana.”

“Why didn’t you say anything? I could have made you another kind.”

“Because— Dammit, Harry! Because I don’t want your fucking muffins! Or your help or your compliments or your weird-as-fuck greetings! I don’t want to be your friend! I don’t want to be your anything, don’t you get that?”

“Oh,” Harry says, very quietly. “Oh, okay. I… I understand. I’m sorry to have bothered you, then. Excuse me, I have to be…” He gestures vaguely across the street. “Over there now.”

Louis watches Harry cross the street without looking both ways. He’s lacking the usual bounce in his step, and Louis feels his stomach twist up in knots. He feels like the world’s biggest wanker right now for shouting at Harry the way he just did.

He’s so distracted that he doesn’t realise the song has ended and has been replaced with quite possibly the worst follow-up. He scrambles around the car and wrenches open the door, feeling around for his phone to kill the sound before Zac Efron can tell him to bet on it, bet on it, bet on it, bet on it.

Because the universe is working against him today, there’s a man walking by right then. “High School Musical, mate?” he asks snidely. “Really?”

“Oh, fuck off,” Louis snaps. “You knew what it was, you’re not better than me.”

The guy chuckles, and Louis glares at his retreating back, muttering “twat” under his breath. When he looks across the street again, Harry’s gone. Which is fine, of course, because he’d said what he needed to say. Sure, he’d been a bit of an arsehole about it, but it’ll be fine. He doesn’t have to see Harry until Saturday, anyway, and he’ll probably be over it by then. Louis’ got no reason to be sorry, no reason to apologise. He didn’t do anything wrong, at least not by his standards.

He’s lying to himself, of course, but he’s stubborn enough to resist chasing after Harry and begging for his forgiveness.

(Later, he’ll sneak into the office at the club and look up Harry’s number. He’ll type it into his phone, and stare at the screen with his finger hovering over the call button for longer then he’ll care to admit. He’ll repeat this several times over the remainder of the week, never quite gathering the courage to follow through.)

* * *

Harry had been on his way to the shop to pick up some groceries when Louis had shown up, and after escaping to the other side of the street, he’d been forced to hide behind a tree until Louis finally drove off. It’s the most embarrassing thing that’s happened to him in a long time - and that’s saying something, as he’s not easily embarrassed. At least, not before Louis came along.

He shouldn’t still like Louis after that. Louis was a dick to him. Harry should dislike him.

But he doesn’t.

Because he’s a masochist, probably. Or just that desperate to be liked. Or there’s something special about Louis that makes Harry interested enough to not actively hate him right now.

Okay, maybe he’s just a little upset.

It’s just… He didn’t do anything wrong? Even playing back all their previous encounters in his head provides no explanations; it’s maddening.

There’s still a few hours left before he has to fetch Beau from school, and Harry’s not sure how to fill them. He wanders from room to room until he stops in front of a nearly empty one that he’s been meaning to fill, he just hasn’t had the time or the motivation. Which is weird, really, as the presence of this room - and the fact that it contained a piano, one that the estate agent had informed him came with the house whether he wanted it or not - is what convinced him to purchase the house in the first place. Luckily for him, he did want it; he’d always wanted to learn piano, it’s one of those things he would go out to do and then just not follow up. But this time, he’s determined to actually accomplish his goal.

He brings both of his hands up, letting them hover over the keys, and then brings them down - once; hard - so that the instrument lets out a horrible noise. He does it again and again until he’s calm, mentally apologising to the previous owners of the piano for the way he’s just treated it.

Miss Kitty enters the room soundlessly, and leaps into his lap, and hops from there to the piano keys, shooting him looks of varying degrees of alarm as her footsteps make noises.

Harry smiles genuinely for the first time since he saw Louis that morning, and gently rubs the soft spot at the top of Miss Kitty’s head. She flicks her tail at him, and he lets himself be batted in the face by it. He lifts her up then, standing as well, and shutting the cover on the piano while Miss Kitty purrs against his chest. Cuddling with his pet always serves to cheer him up - his childhood cat Dusty had helped him through many bad nights - so he decides to spend the rest of his afternoon on the sofa with Netflix and Miss Kitty, who he’s convinced actually watches the movies with him, no matter how ridiculous Gemma tells him that idea is. She’s just jealous that she can’t tell people her pet - well, hypothetical pet - shares her favourite movie.

In a world where life just doesn’t seem fair, he’s eternally grateful for his daughter, his cat, and shirtless Ryan Gosling.

* * *

Louis doesn’t notice anything amiss in his flat when he first wakes up on Saturday morning. He’s tired from an emotionally taxing week of dealing with people on the phones, and all he wants to do is stay in his bed for as long as possible before he has to get ready to coach.

His feet feel unusually cold, meaning Clifford’s woken up before he has, which isn’t too unusual, but he’d been looking forward to having a cuddle before officially starting his day.

He whistles and calls out, “Clifford! Where are you?”

His large black labradoodle comes barrelling through his bedroom door like a bat out of hell, and really, that should have been his first clue that something was wrong. Clifford’s moving so fast that he skids on the wood floor, and crashes into the side of the bed. Louis sits up abruptly and Clifford climbs onto the bed.

“Whoa there, boyo! What’s got you so— What the fuck? Why are you wet?”

Clifford doesn’t respond, obviously, but he also doesn’t protest when Louis shoves him off and scrambles up to go see what’s happened.

He gets his answer the moment he steps onto the living room carpet and it makes an unpleasant squelching noise.

“Well,” he says out loud to no one but his dog, “that isn’t good.”

Clifford barks, either in agreement, or because he doesn’t want to follow Louis deeper into the flat, because he’s got sensitive paws and hates to get them wet.

“Stay here,” he tells Clifford.

Upon further investigation, Louis discovers the source of the leak, as the carpet gets wetter the closer he gets to the cupboard containing his water heater. Just his fucking luck; he’s had no trouble with it since moving in, and of course as soon as Harry Styles began to take up residence in his daily life, something like this happens.

He takes another step forward, wincing as his socks soak up more water. Just his fucking luck _again_ , because it’s the first time in ages he’s worn socks to bed - or, at all, really - and the one time he chooses to cover his cold feet while he’s sleeping, he wakes up to… Up to this.

Louis feels like he might cry, but he stops himself, because there will be time for that later, and quickly strips off his soaking wet socks. The wet carpet doesn’t feel much better under his bare toes, but it’s enough of an improvement that’s he’s able to hop his way back to the lounge.

Once Louis’ returned, he crouches down and gently picks up Clifford’s right paw, rubbing it down with the towel until it’s as dry as he can get it.

“There,” he soothes, “doesn’t that feel better?” Clifford huffs a noise that Louis interprets as a “yes” and he repeats the action with the other three paws, dropping the towel on the floor, sitting down heavily at the same time once he finishes. He knows the first thing he needs to do is call his landlord, but he needs a moment to himself to process, so he sits in the small hallway, Clifford by his side, stroking his wet dog like he hasn’t just woken up to a flooded flat.

Part of him wants to call the club and beg off work today, but he finds himself craving some sense of normalcy after this - plus he doesn’t exactly have anywhere to hang out if he doesn’t go - at least, not anywhere dry. He forgot, however, about his dog. He couldn’t just leave him in the flat. Louis sighs, and hopes this doesn’t get him fired, because he’s starting to discover he really does enjoy coaching.

“I guess you’re coming with me then,” he tells Clifford, and prays that none of the children have a fear of dogs.

His landlord shows up right before he’s about to leave, and they talk for so long that Louis is now running 15 minutes behind schedule. Louis had been informed that while he won’t be expected to pay for the damage, he will have to find somewhere else to stay for the next fortnight. Which is rather unfortunate, as Louis doesn’t have anywhere to go. He doesn’t relay this to his landlord, though, and instead lets him know that Louis will be by after his coaching job to pick up some necessities. He can just figure out what to do on the way. Maybe he’ll ask Kevin if he can crash on his couch. Kevin is his friend, surely he’ll say yes.

It’s going to be fine.

* * *

Harry tries to stop himself from looking at his watch again, but he can’t help it, because Louis still isn’t here. It’s been nearly 30 minutes now, and he’s beginning to get worried. Nearly all the other children are gone, their parents unwilling to wait around for the coach. Harry doesn’t blame them, but now there are fewer people around to distract him from his anxious thoughts. Has something happened to Louis? Is he hurt? Harry wishes he had the other man’s number so he could calm his nerves.

Beau seems concerned, but nothing like Harry’s near hysteria. He thinks it’s lucky that he didn’t pass on his anxiety to her, long past the point where he corrects himself when he forgets they’re not actually blood-related. To Harry, they are.

Harry and Beau are the only ones still on the pitch when Louis’ car pulls into the park. Harry tries to disguise his sigh of relief as a cough, and he holds Beau back before she darts over to the car. “Wait until he’s parked,” he reminds her gently, and she stills.

“Do you think he’s okay?” she asks, and Harry doesn’t know how to answer her, so he says what he wants to hear most. “I’m sure he’s fine. Sometimes grown-ups just get caught up in grown-up things.” Even he’s not convinced by his words, and he’s glad when Louis approaches them so he doesn’t have to continue.

Then he notices how bedraggled Louis looks. He’s so preoccupied with thoughts of what could be wrong that he doesn’t notice Louis’ companion until Beau squeals excitedly and runs to him.

“Can I stroke your dog?”

Louis nods, and Harry steps closer to him. “Is everything okay?” he asks.

Louis looks a bit like he doesn’t know how to answer, and Harry backtracks. “You don’t, um, you don’t have to say if, uh, if you don’t want to.” He forgot that he doesn’t actually have any claim to Louis, and that Louis is under no obligation to share his life with Harry. (That realisation should not make him as sad as it does.)

“No, it’s fine. I just don’t know where to begin, is all.” He laughs, but it’s not happy, more…tired. Resigned. Harry nearly goes to hug him, but he stops himself.

“A pipe burst in my flat, flooded the whole thing pretty badly. My landlord says I need to find somewhere else to stay while it’s being repaired, only I—” he starts, and falters, “I don’t actually have a place to go yet? I tried all the hotels nearby, and no one within 25 kilometres allows dogs his size.” Louis nods in Clifford’s direction, who wags his tail, oblivious to the trouble he’s causing.

“I’ve got a guest room. You can stay with us. In the guest room.”

“Harry…”

“No, it’ll be perfect! You need a place to stay, right? I’ve got a place!” Harry’s excited now, because _finally_. This is going to be the thing that finally wins Louis over - he’s sure of it.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to impose.”

“You wouldn’t be imposing,” he says. “I just asked you.”

“Well…” Louis should say no. He _wants_ to say no. He’s going to say no, has the word all ready to go, only when he opens his mouth, the no comes out as a “thank you, I really appreciate it,” and just like that, he’s going to be a guest at Harry Styles’ mansion. Or whatever he lives in. Louis bets it’s a mansion. With like, five cars and _staff_. Do people even keep staff anymore? It’s not like he’d know. Just…

Fuck, what’s he meant to do now?

* * *

Apparently, he’s meant to let Harry drive him to his flat to pack enough shit for the two weeks he’ll be staying.

Louis feels overwhelmed as he surveys the wreck that is currently his flat. Christ, it’s a mess. Fucking water heater. Fucking piece of shit building. Just his fucking luck.

He doesn’t know what he’d be doing right now if Harry hadn’t opened up his house. He’d probably be on his way back to Doncaster right now, if he’s honest. And if he goes home over something like this, his sisters would never let him hear the end of it.

No, he can’t go home.

Louis had only grabbed the necessities from his flat when he’d originally left that morning, and now he’s faced tasked with deciding which of his things were actually necessary enough to bring to Harry’s. “Before I start packing boxes,” he says to Harry, “you can still back out.”

“I’m not going to back out. I offered to let you stay with us because you needed a place to stay. Why would I say that and then back out?”

Louis shrugs.

“I’m sorry, by the way,” Harry says, and Louis’ head snaps up.

“For what?”

“For… I don’t know… For being so aggressive? I shouldn’t have pushed myself on you like that. It wasn’t appropriate.” Harry chuckles drily. “My sister gives me shit because I hate when people don’t like me. I tell her she’s full of it, but she’s right. I really do hate it, but that’s not an excuse.”

“What the fuck? You’re not the one who should be apologising about that! I’m the one who yelled at you on a bloody public road.”

“Yeah, you did do that.”

“I’m, um, I’m really sorry about that, by the way,” Louis says.“It was really, really shitty of me; you didn’t deserve any of that. Christ… I… It’s really not you— Well, I mean, it’s kind of you. It’s kind of you, and it’s kind of not.”

Harry tilts his head. “You’re not making sense.”

“I know,” he sighs. “But my point is that you don’t need to apologise. Like, at all.”

“What if I want to apologise?”

“I don’t care.” Louis snaps, and then winces, because he’s supposed to be fucking nice now, dammit. “I mean, you can if you want to, of course. Obviously. But… Just… Don’t? Please don’t. It’s 100% my fault, all of it. I let my past impressions of you colour any current ones, and that absolutely wasn’t fair to you. So, I’m sorry. Again.”

“I guess I can see where you’re coming from,” Harry says slowly. “If I only knew me from the things I read in tabloids, I don’t think I’d want to know me either.” He looks sad at the thought, and Louis doesn’t know what to say then, can’t defend his behaviour, can’t apologise more than he has, but he still feels an uncomfortable twist deep in his gut. The way Harry talks about it, it’s obvious fame did it’s best to chew him up, spit him out, and generally just fuck him over. Louis has never been more certain that he never wants to become famous; it’s just not worth it. He doesn’t know how Harry lasted so long.

(Then again, Harry did drop off the map for nine years, so he’s probably not the best example of someone who handles fame well.)

“What’s the weirdest rumour you’ve ever heard about yourself?” Louis asks, in a desperate attempt at a segue.

It works; Harry looks up at the ceiling, squinting as he considers the question. “I guess I never really paid attention to them after a while. In the beginning, I’d read it all, every bad review and mean tweet, all the lies, but I couldn’t anymore; it got to be too much. The media is mental. Always has been. Always will be.”

“Sounds like that’s putting it mildly.”

“I always found fan theories amusing, though.”

“Oh?” Uh oh.

“Yeah,” he says. “Like the really crazy ones. They were always obsessed with who I was dating. Or, more like who they _wanted_ me to be dating.” Harry tilts his head. “Do you know what shipping is?”

“Of course I know what shipping is.” Louis knows too much, really, because it would have been impossible to grow up in the same house as Lottie and Fizzy and _not_ be familiar with that particular facet of fandom. (He’s team Zarry, _obviously_ , and will make life hell for anyone who learns his secret.)

“So you know about the ‘ship wars’, then.”

“I’m familiar.” Louis is _definitely_ familiar. (Lottie was a Zarrie. Fizzy was a Narrie. Things used to get heated; this did not endear him to Harry - one half of each ship, and the source of 75% of his sisters’ fights - in the least.)

“It’s ironic,” Harry says, just as Louis lifts the plastic bottle to his lips, “because although more people thought I was with either Niall or Zayn, Liam was the only one I actually fucked.”

Louis’ entire world ends, because he’s just shot water out of his nose in front of Harry, and is now coughing and gasping pathetically as Harry howls with laughter.

“Your face! Look at your face! You actually believed that!”

“You’re a menace, Harold,” Louis grumbles.

Harry giggles, and then scrunches up his face.

“My name isn’t Harold,” he complains.

“Of course it is, Harold.”

“Fine, _Lewis_.” Harry raises his eyebrows like he’s expecting a reaction from Louis, but he just shrugs.

“That’s what my mates back in Donny call me,” he tells Harry, unbothered. “You’re going to have to try harder than that.”

“Does this make us mates, then?” Harry asks, looking thoughtful.

“That depends, are you going to stop publicly embarrassing me?”

“I can’t make any promises.”

“I suppose that’s fair,” Louis says, working to sound put-upon, but grinning to let Harry know he’s not serious.

Harry laughs, and then claps his hands together, serious now. “How can I help?” he asks.

“Oh, uh,” Louis blinks at the unexpected offer. “You can start moving those,” he points to the boxes by his door, “out to your car.”

“What about me?” Beau asks when she returns from her brief exploration of Louis’ small flat. (Both he and Harry tried to stop her, but she’d ventured on, socks and all.)

“Hmm,” Harry seems to think for a minute. “Do you mind taking Clifford outside while we finish up in here? He’s got a bit of a drive, and I’d like to avoid…” Harry trails off, and Louis snorts.

“Are you implying that you think my dog would have a wee in your car?”

“Among other things,” Harry says, and Louis snorts again.

“Right, well then, Clif. Why don’t you and Beau take a trip outside, yeah? Keep Harry here from getting his knickers in a twist? What do you think, boyo? Wanna go outside?”

Clifford perks up as he’s addressed, and wags his tail excitedly. He follows Louis out, ramming his head into Louis lower back in his eagerness to get in the car. Beau tugs his lead until he’s following her to a grassy patch, and Louis heads back inside to grab more boxes.

Once he’s in the car park carrying out the third load, Louis runs into Mr Stevenson, who lives in the flat two doors down from him.

“That car’s looking a bit full there, lad.”

Louis chuckles, because what else can he do? “It is.”

“Going on holiday?”

“Not exactly,” he says. “A pipe burst in my flat.”

This earns him a wince and a sympathetic smile. “Tough luck, eh?”

“Something like that.”

“Hope it gets fixed soon.”

“Fingers crossed,” Louis says, because he doesn’t know how long he’ll be able to last at _Harry Styles’ house_. None of this feels real, honestly. Especially not the part about Harry.

Louis swears when he realises he’s going to have to let his family know what happened. They’ll be worried, obviously, and as much as he hates to worry them, he’s more afraid of the questions they’ll ask. And by they, he means Lottie and Fizzy. Because they’ll want to know where he’s staying, and he can’t lie to them.

Fucking _hell_.

He slams the boot shut harder than he should for a car that isn’t his, and pulls out his phone to make the dreaded call.

Maybe they won’t ask.

(Of course, the universe is never that kind.)

* * *

Louis almost doesn’t realise they’ve arrived at Harry’s house until Harry’s pulling up the drive. His eyes go to the modest-sized bungalow in front of them, and widen slightly. “Oh.”

Harry’s head snaps to looks at him. “Oh?”

“I thought it would be… Bigger.”

The car jerks to the right as Harry makes a sputtering noise.

Louis glances to the left and raises an eyebrow. “You okay there, Harold?”

“Fine,” he replies, though he clearly isn’t.

“I was talking about your house.”

“I knew that.”

“Are you sure?”

“What did you think he meant, Daddy?”

“Noth— Nothing, Bo-bear. Daddy was just being silly, nothing to worry yourself over.”

“Okay.”

Harry watches as she settles back into her seat and looks out the window. “It’s just the two of us,” he tells Louis as he puts the car in park. “No reason for that much space.”

“Makes sense.”

Before Louis gets a chance to open the car door, it’s already swinging out, Beau grinning at him from the other side. “I’ve got it!” she chirps.

“Thank you,” Louis laughs. “That’s very polite of you.”

“I’m always polite,” she says. “Daddy says it’s important.”

“That it is,” Louis agrees, climbing out and going around to the boot to fetch his bags. Clifford hops out after him, and immediately goes to investigate the grass next to the driveway.

When Harry notices Louis reaching for the boot, he waves him off. “Go inside and make yourself comfortable. We’ll get your things.”

“Are you going to make a nine year old carry all that?” Louis asks.

Beau crosses her arms. “I’m nine and a half. And girls can carry just as much as boys.”

“Didn’t say it was because you’re a girl, sweetheart. And I know they can; thank you for giving me a hand.”

Her “no problem!” is muffled by the large bag she’s attempting to carry inside, and Louis resists the urge to help her. His face must show it, because Harry chuckles at his expression.

“You can go ahead and go inside, if you like. Your room is in the hall next to the kitchen, second door down.”

“Thanks,” Louis replies, and side steps Beau - who now resembles a suitcase with legs - on his way inside. He whistles for Clifford who comes running to join him.

Louis locates the door easily, and the first thing he notices is that it’s rather large for a guest bedroom. The walls are painted a pale yellow, and the big bay window overlooks a large garden filled with plants. Louis didn’t peg Harry as a gardener, but then again, Harry’s managed to surprise him enough in the past month that he really should expect it by now.

Something small darts into the room and wraps itself around Harry’s ankles, purring loudly.

He watches as Harry reaches down to pick up what Louis has now figured out is a cat. “This is Miss Kitty,” he says fondly. “Well, her formal name is Princess Kitty Longstocking Styles, but we just call her Miss Kitty.”

Louis looks from the pretty orange and white cat, to Harry, and back to the cat. “Let me guess, you let Beau name the cat.”

“How did you know?”

He looks at Miss Kitty. “Just a hunch. And my younger sisters love Pippi Longstocking, so I figured that was the inspiration.”

“You figured right,” Harry says. “It’s Beau’s favourite book.”

“It’s the twins favourite as well, nearly all of their copies are falling to pieces.”

“That’s Phoebe and Daisy, right?”

Louis nods, touched that Harry remembered him saying that.

“So you’ve got two sets of twins in your family? Is that rare?”

His answer is cut off by a loud yowl emanating from Miss Kitty after Clifford lunges in her direction. Harry clutches the cat closer to his chest and frowns.

“I didn’t take this into account,” he says slowly, and Louis prepares to be asked to leave, but Harry’s face breaks out into a wide smile instead. “I guess we’re just going to have to teach them to be friends!”

Louis stares, blinks, and decides he wouldn’t put it past Harry Styles to think he can successfully get his cat and Louis’ dog to coexist in the same place. It’s not worth arguing over, anyway, especially not once he realises how tired he is - practically bordering on exhaustion. It’s been a bit of a day.

“Do you mind if I have a nap?” he asks.

Harry shakes his head. “Of course not. Do you need anything before I leave?”

“No, thanks,” Louis says, and Harry nods.

“Okay then. Let me know when you’re up, yeah? I’ll make you something to eat.”

Louis almost tells him not to go to all that trouble, but all he’s eaten today is a granola bar - he’d be daft to turn down Harry’s cooking. “Sure, sounds good.”

“Sleep well,” Harry tells him, looking genuinely pleased with his agreement, and shuts the door quietly behind him.

Louis waits for a beat before sitting on the bed. Today has been a confusing one; this whole month has been confusing, if he’s honest. It’s been one long stretch of Louis being forced to reevaluate everything he thought he knew about the world. Well, maybe not the world. Maybe just Harry Styles.

Still.

The Harry he knew in his youth - at least, the one he’d seen on the telly - had been a completely different person from the one who just left the room. He’d chalk that up to emotional maturity, but something tells him that the villain painted by the media at the time might have been completely fabricated. Based on the way everyone in town raves about what a lovely young man he’d been, Louis has become less and less convinced that the real Harry would do even one of the things he’d been accused of over the years. (It wouldn’t be the first time the media painted an innocent bloke as a villain, after all.)

Louis isn’t sure how he feels about that. He doesn’t like being wrong, hates it even, but after hearing just a small sliver of Harry’s story earlier today, Louis begins to realise this just might be the first time he’d enjoy being wrong.

* * *

When Louis opens his eyes again, nearly two hours have passed. He winces, because he really hadn’t meant to nap that long. There’s a warm pressure on his stomach, and when he glances down he sees that Clifford’s resting his large furry head on Louis’ belly. His dog still appears to be asleep, and normally Louis wouldn’t disturb him when he’s like this, but he’s got to wee, so he gently pushes Clifford’s head away. The disturbance shocks him awake, and he gives Louis what would be a baleful glare if he didn’t know what a softy Clifford actually was.

“Sorry, Boyo,” Louis apologises. “Pressing matters, and all that.”

Clifford huffs a low bark and flops back down on the bed, presumably to fall asleep again. “Lazy dog,” Louis chuckles, giving his head a pat before finally standing up and going to check out the en-suite. (What kind of guest room has an en-suite? Harry truly is loaded, Louis thinks.)

* * *

Louis had intended to finish unpacking once he woke up, but the sound of music and laughter coming from the kitchen tempted him from his room. He stands in the doorway and watches as Harry and Beau move around the kitchen, chuckling at the fact that Harry’s dance moves resemble something closer to a drunk dad at a barbecue than a former millionaire pop star. (Then again, according to his sisters, Status Single was never really known for their dancing.) (Which is good, because Harry’s truly terrible.)

Harry breaks out a particularly aggressive shoulder thrust, causing him to slip forward slightly. Louis watches Harry’s face scrunch up in surprise when his socked feet cause him to continue sliding until he lands on his arse with a thump.

“Daddy!” Beau cries when she notices.

Louis rushes forward, not caring that he might be called out for watching them, and crouches down next to Harry. “Are you okay?”

Harry looks dazed, but he plasters on a smile for Beau. “Daddy’s fine,” he reassures her, and allows Louis to help him to his feet. Louis doesn’t miss the way he winces as his puts pressure on his left leg, and he subtly scoots closer to Harry so he can lean his weight on him without it being obvious to Beau.

Harry winces as his bends down to retrieve the fallen wooden spoons. “That’s what I get for wearing socks on wood,” he says ruefully.

“You should put some ice on it,” Louis whispers into Harry’s ear, and the other man shakes his head.

“I said I’m fine,” Harry repeats, and Louis lets it go. He suspects Harry will listen to him once Beau isn’t around, so he turns to face her with a smile.

“Hey! Do you want to help me unpack?”

She nods excitedly, and runs off in the direction of the guest bedroom.

“Thank you,” Harry mouths.

“No problem,” Louis mouths back before turning to follow her.

The sun is beginning to set, the large window providing a gorgeous view of the changing colours. He steps closer, and Beau follows. The two of them watch the sky for a moment, then Beau speaks. “I know my Daddy got hurt,” Beau informs him as she sits down on the window seat, and Louis feels his eyebrows raise.

“You’re perceptive.”

“I’m not blind.”

“He’ll be okay,” Louis assures her, and she rolls her eyes.

“I know he is. This happens all the time; he thinks he’s good at hiding it.”

“Your Dad’s pretty clumsy, huh?”

Beau giggles. “Yeah.”

“Did you inherit that lovely trait from him?”

“Nope,” she says proudly. “I hardly ever fall over.”

Louis gasps in mock surprise. “Oh, my goodness. How do you manage that?”

“Magic,” she whispers, and Louis chuckles to himself. Beau reminds him of his younger sisters, the oldest set of twins who haven’t been anywhere close to Beau’s age in almost a decade. Talking with her brings back a comforting sense of deja vu and eases some of the homesickness that’s with him always.

“Magic? Are you a witch, then?”

“Of course I am,” Beau says.

“How about we use those witch powers to unpack these boxes; sound good?”

Instead of answers, Beau darts from the room, returning moments later with a plastic wand Louis recognises as coming from Harry Potter World, and waves it in the direction of Louis’ stack. She mumbles nonsense in Latin, and Louis has to bit his lip hard to keep from bursting into a fit of giggles.

Finally, the wand waving and Latin gibberish cease.

“There,” Beau says, “now your things will be easier to put away.”

“I thought you were going to help me.”

“I did help you.”

“Oh, of course, how could I forget,” he laughs. “You used your witch powers.”

“Do you want me to do it again?” she asks, and Louis shrugs.

“Go ahead.”

And that’s where Harry finds them later, surrounded by half-unpacked suitcases while Beau points a wand as Louis while he hops around the room and croaks like a frog. He’s having too much fun to be properly embarrassed, and it’s at that exact moment that he decides his stay here might not actually be too horrible.

In fact, he might even enjoy it.

 


	3. Chapter 3

The day before Louis is meant to return to his flat he finds himself and Harry sat on the sofa, engaged in their nightly routine of watching something - _anything_ \- that didn’t contain an anthropomorphic fox puppet.

Louis’ beer is empty, has been for the last five minutes, but he still fakes a swig in an effort to tear his eyes away from the glistening drop on the corner of Harry’s upper lip. “What’s the worst Halloween costume you’ve ever worn?” he asks, because he can only pretend to keep drinking for so long before conversation becomes a necessity.

Harry looks indignant, forehead wrinkled and green eyes shooting daggers at him from the other side of the sofa. “First of all, I pull off every costume I’ve ever worn, thank you very much.”

“Calm down, Harold,” Louis snorts, “‘s just a question.”

“Why’d you have to make it negative, though? Why not ‘Hey, Harry—”

“Harold,” he corrects.

Harry blinks. “What?”

“You meant to say ‘Hey, Harold,’ but go on.”

Harry, obviously much too used to this particular nickname - a definite sign that it’s time for a new one - chooses not to rise to the bait and returns to his point. “What I was _saying_ , is that you could’ve just asked me what my best costume was.”

“Alright,” Louis replies, because he’s easygoing like that, “tell us your best one, then.”

“I can’t remember.”

“ _Jesus fu_ —”

“Also,” Harry says quickly, “I just remembered that one year I dressed as Miley Cyrus and I don’t know how to defend that, so can we change the subject please?”

“Oh, God,” Louis groans, because of course they’re not changing the subject - is Harry mad? “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Nope,” he replies, and it pleases Louis that he’s rolling with Louis’ plan of, well, not doing what Harry asked. “VMAs Miley Cyrus. Spandex and everything.”

“I need to see pictures of this.”

Harry shakes his head. “No way. Besides, I don’t think I’ve even got any.”

“Gemma might,” Louis says, and Harry’s jaw drops.

“You wouldn’t,” he groans.

“Oh, Harold, it’s like you don’t even know me at all.”

“I do know you. And that’s why I know I need to keep you and Gemma far, far away from each other.”

“Are the pictures really that bad?”

“I have tape over my nipples.”

Louis is intrigued. “All four of them?”

“No, just the main ones. Though I’m not sure that’s any better. And I had my hair up in those… What are they called… The buns? The two buns?”

“Space buns?”

“How did you know what those were called?”

“I have five sisters. And if you didn’t think I would know, then why the fuck did you ask me?”

Harry shrugs. “It’s kind of a habit at this point.”

“Asking me things?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s weird,” Louis snorts.

“That’s rude.”

“Yeah, well, it’s true,” he says playfully, and when Harry doesn’t answer he feels like he’s won something. “So,” he asks, “what are you going to dress as this year? Another popstar? Britney, maybe?”

Harry shrugs, _again_ , and Louis swears it’s like he’s always fucking shrugging. (It really shouldn’t be that endearing, but it _is_.) “Probably nothing. I don’t have any parties to go to, and I can’t wear too much of a costume at the PTA one.”

Louis looks offended. “Where’s your Halloween spirit?”

“It died when I ripped out chest hairs taking that tape off.”

“Well, that’s changing; we’re dressing up this year.”

“We?” Harry asks, sounding amused.

“Yes, we,” Louis confirms, because he’s put it out there and can’t take it back.

“What, like matching costumes?”

“Well I wasn’t going to say that, but sure.”

Harry looks thoughtful, and then says, “Why don’t we see what Beau wants to do first?”

Louis nods, because this day is really supposed to be about her, after all. “Sounds like a plan.”

“What’s the worst costume _you’ve_ ever worn?” Harry asks next, and Louis laughs.

“Oh, God, that’s a hard one, but I think that honour has to go to the year me and the lads dressed up as Kiss, only none of us could do makeup for shit. And it took ages to get that facepaint off. Had it stuck in my hairline for days.”

“Gross.”

“You’re gross.”

“That’s mature.”

“Never claimed I was, love. We can’t all be distinguished middle-aged men.”

“Middle-aged?” Harry squawks, “I am not middle-aged!”

Louis giggles at Harry’s indignant expression. “You sure? I’m almost positive I saw you pull out a pair of reading glasses to read the paper yesterday.”

“You wear glasses too.”

“Not because I’m old, though. Your’s, however— Ow! Harry!”

Harry looks smug, and Louis rubs at the spot on his side where Harry’s just jabbed him with his finger.

“What the fuck was that for?” he cries.

“You called me old.”

“I called you middle-aged.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Of course there’s a difference,” Louis scoffs.

Harry rolls his eyes. “I’m sure I must seem impossibly old to you, a child.”

Now Harry is the one crying out as Louis pokes him in the side, hard. “I’m not a child,” he says.

“Pretty hard to defend yourself when you’re poking me in the side.”

“You poked me first!”

“Did I?”

Any retort Louis’d been planning is interrupted by the sound of his phone vibrating in his pocket. He smiles apologetically before answering the call.

 

Harry tries hard not to listen in, he really does, but it’s hard when Louis’ still sat _right there_ , so he has to feign surprise when Louis groans and informs him, “They’ve pushed it off _again_ ,” he says. Harry hums sympathetically. “ _And_ ,” Louis continues, sounding properly frazzled, “apparently it’s _worse_.”

Oh, shit. “Worse how?”

“They found mould.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Yeah.”

Louis looks so tired and worn down then, that in an effort to make him not look like that anymore, Harry says the first and most reassuring thing he can think of. “Well, you’re free to continue staying here as long as you need to; I really don’t mind.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course,” he reassures him. “I’m not going to kick you out for being the unluckiest bloke in the world.”

“‘m not unlucky,” Louis protests. “The universe just doesn’t like me or want me to succeed in any way.”

“Hate to break it to you, Lou, but that makes you unlucky.”

Louis rolls his eyes and settles back into the sofa again. Harry takes it as a sign he should go ahead and pick something to watch already; for some reason, his choice feels particularly important tonight, like Louis might judge him for picking the wrong thing. Eventually, he settles on an episode of Friends, which Louis doesn’t voice any displeasure about, and sinks back into the sofa as he lets his mind wander.

Harry would be lying if he said he wasn’t happy about the fact that Louis’ staying longer. He doesn’t know what he was thinking when he said it, though, except maybe about the fact that he’s enjoying having a guest, and he knows Beau’s loving it too - especially because it means she gets extra football practice in, and can now run circles around the other girls in her class. (Harry suspects his competitive streak has managed to rub off on her.)

And it’s not just Beau he’s influenced; Louis is the first person he’s felt this close to this quickly since he met Niall, Liam and Zayn back in 2010. He’d forgotten how nice it feels to just… To click with someone like that.

Deep down, he knows that any feelings he’s having towards Louis are decidedly different from the way he’d felt about his friends, and if he was a braver man, he’d tell Louis that. But he’s not, so after allowing himself a brief moment to entertain that thought, he vigorously shakes it off. Begone, traitorous feelings.

_Do you really have to stay away_? a sneaky voice whispers to him, and he half considers listening to it. Technically, there’s nothing stopping him - except his own moral compass and common sense.

Because he can’t take advantage of Louis like that, no matter how stupidly attracted to the man he may be. Because he’s gone from a guest in his house to a semi-permanent resident. He’s become an important fixture in his daughter’s life. He’s also a whole eight years younger than him. And he’s still quite possibly the fittest bloke Harry’s ever had the misfortune of meeting.

He can’t pursue anything with Louis. It just wouldn’t be right, no matter how much he may want to.

(And he really, _really_ , wants to.)

* * *

Two more weeks later and Louis’ still not back in his flat. It’s getting a bit ridiculous at this point, really. He was told two weeks - at the absolute _maximum_ \- but it’s been a month and things are no closer to being fixed than they were a fucking _month_ ago.

His only consolation is that Harry continues to be an excellent host, and barely bats an eyelid when Louis drops the bomb that he might have to stay even longer than anticipated. _Again_.

Stupid bloody flat. Stupid bloody water heater. Stupid bloody cheap landlord. Stupid bloody _him_ for thinking he could make it on his own. Stupid stupid _stupid_.

He’s a fucking idiot.

Clifford shuffles closer and rests his big head on Louis’ knee, whuffing softly as if to say ‘no you aren’t’, and Louis sighs.

“At least I’ve got you, boyo,” he says, scratching Clifford behind the ears. The action soothes him just as much as it seems to soothe his dog, and he relaxes back on the sofa and closes his eyes, focusing all of his attention on the feeling of Clifford’s fur.

He feels the couch dip ever-so-slightly next to him on the side not occupied by Clifford. The newcomer is too light to be anyone but Miss Kitty, and Louis reaches out for her blindly. Either she’s finally over her grudge against all things black and curly, or she can sense Louis’ strange mood, because she actually lets him stroke her head for longer than a few seconds.

He holds his breath, fully expecting her to run off at any moment, only she doesn’t, even goes so far as to roll over onto her back and allow him to rub her belly. Clifford lifts his head when she starts purring, and the two of them hold a silent staring contest across Louis’ lap.

“You lot are weird,” he chuckles.

That’s how Harry finds him an hour later, sandwiched between two dozing animals and practically asleep himself. He would have left the room ages ago if not for the fact that he’d feel terrible for moving either one’s slumber, and the only logical option was to, well, stay there.

For some reason, Harry seems to find this extremely amusing. “Comfortable?”

Louis cracks one eye open to find Harry standing in the doorway, smirking as he takes in Louis’ current position. “As a matter of fact, I am. Thanks.”

Harry hums, sounding like he’s trying to hold back a laugh, and doesn’t make any move to leave.

“Can I help you with something?” he asks, still squinting in Harry’s direction, who shrugs.

“Just wondering where you were.”

Louis blinks slowly. “I’m right here.”

“Thanks,” Harry replies drily, “I was about to give up looking.”

“Anytime, mate.”

“Is there any room left for me?”

“What, here?”

Harry rolls his eyes and shoots him a look. “Obviously.”

Louis looks from Clifford, to Miss Kitty, to Harry and then back to Clifford. “I mean, you can certainly _try_. But you _are_ quite large, so…” he trails off, not quite sure where he’d meant to take that

“Maybe I’ll just sit on your lap, then,” Harry jokes. At least, Louis _thinks_ he’s joking - with Harry, you never really know.

Not one to back down for a challenge, Louis raises a challenging eyebrow and says, “Go right ahead.”

“You sure?”

Louis swallows. Suddenly this is all… It’s just…

It’s a lot.

And it really, really shouldn’t be.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he says, and watches - both eyes widewide _wide_ open now, as Harry approaches. For a split second, Louis thinks he’s actually going to do it, that Harry’s actually going to sit down on his lap, but at the very last minute Harry veers to the left and, with a gracefulness Louis was not aware he even possessed, scoops Miss Kitty up and sits down with her on his lap before she even has time to protest.

It’s oddly impressive, really.

“That was impressive,” he tells Harry, who snorts.

“It wasn’t really that impressive; all I did was move a cat. Now if I had done that with Clifford, however—”

“As if you could actually lift him,” Louis interrupts.

“That a challenge?”

“No.”

“Alright then.” He says, and then, “Mind if I turn on the telly?”

Louis shrugs before replying, “‘s your house, mate.”

“Just wanted to check.”

“Well, you obviously don’t have to.”

“I was just being… Nevermind.”

Louis resists the urge to poke back, to ask what Harry thinks he was being. Their banter is fun, but he’s honestly just exhausted; a side effect of how hard he’s been working lately. Which is a side effect of still being in this house. Still being around Harry.

He’s so bloody tired.

He’s reached a strange point in his life where he’s actually started looking forward to going into work each day, if only for the sense of normalcy it provides. It’s extra great this week, too, as his cube mate has gone on holiday, and he’s actually got a space to call his own. Christ, this accidental roommate situation must be fucking with him more than he originally thought if he’s beginning to appreciate his cramped space at the office.

It doesn’t even make sense, it’s not like he doesn’t have plenty of space at Harry’s - he’s practically got a wing to himself - but it’s still not the same as living on his own. Admittedly, it is nice to have other people to come home to after work, and it wasn’t too long ago that he was living in a much smaller house with a much greater number of people, it’s just…

He doesn’t know what it is. But it keeps him working later hours; he’s even started accepting his co-workers’ invitations to go out for drinks once their day is over. The first time he’d said yes was treated a joke, which is understandable, really, as he’s always made his feelings towards 90% of his office mates perfectly fucking clear.

Eventually, his agreement stopped being met with laughter, and hardly anyone looks at him oddly when he arrives at the pub now, but not everyone seems convinced that his newfound drive to bond with the group is truly genuine.

Well, it’s mostly just Louise. And she’s just being nosy, really. Just looking for things that aren’t there and sticking her nose in places noses shouldn’t be stuck. Making baseless assumptions. Completely baseless. Absolutely not factual at all. Not in the slightest. She has no right to speculate on his (non-existent) relationship with Harry. (And, honestly, even if they were in one, he wouldn’t want her nose in it either.)

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Louis’ head snaps up at the sound of Harry’s voice. “What?”

“You just looked like you had something on your mind. Do you need to talk about it?”

_Not with you_ , Louis thinks to himself, and then shakes his head. “Nah, just planning for Saturday, is all.”

Harry doesn’t look quite convinced, but thankfully he doesn’t press the subject and just turns his attention back to the telly. Louis doesn’t even know what it is they’re watching, and he never finds out either, because he soon finds himself lost in his own thoughts again. And from there, he sleeps.

* * *

Harry’s barely stepped in the door after dropping Beau at school before his phone goes off. He answers it, but doesn’t get a chance to greet the caller because a voice he hasn’t heard in far too long is already asking, “If you could go anywhere in the world right now, where would you go?”

Harry should really be used to Liam’s random questions by now, even after being away for so long. Some things never change. “That depends,” Harry answers, slightly more cautious than he probably needs to be. “Where are you?” Because he wouldn’t put it past Liam to be calling from in front of Harry’s house. (It’s happened before. Not in years, obviously.) (Still.)

“Very funny,” Liam says, “but I’m serious. Where?”  
  
“What’s with the third-degree, Payno?”

“I asked you one question.” He sounds exasperated now, and Harry can’t stop himself from grinning. He misses his friend; it’s been too long since he’s seen Liam in person.

“What if I’m serious too? I want to be where you are.”

“I’m in Canada.”

“Wait, what? Why are you in Canada?”

“’cause that’s where Niall is.”

“Hold on, why’s _Niall_ in Canada?”

There’s a scuffling noise on the other end of the phone, then an undignified squawk that sounds like it came from Liam. Someone breathes heavily into the speaker, and then Niall’s familiar voice is shouting, “I’m getting married bitches!”

“In Canada? _Canada_?”

“Oi, watch what you say about Canada, H.”

“Sorry. Just… Canada? Why not Ireland?”

“We considered it, and I fought for it, don’t worry, but in the end, we settled on getting married here.”

“In Canada.”

“Fuck’s sake, Harry. Yes, Canada.”

“Does this mean _I_ have to go to Canada?”

“Obviously,” Niall says. “You’d have a hard time being my best man all the way back in England.”

“Hey!” Liam protests from somewhere in the background, “I thought _I_ was your best man?”

“You’re both my best man. Well, best men, I suppose. But how could I choose? You’re both the best men. You can both be my best men.”

“Smooth, Nialler,” Harry snorts.

“Always am,” Niall replies smoothly, making Harry snort again. “So,” he says, sounding hopeful, “can you come?” Harry’s struck by how young that question makes Niall seem, like they’re teenagers again and Niall’s just asked Harry if he can spend the holiday at his parent’s house back in Ireland, and not an over-thirty-year-old asking a fellow over-thirty (barely) to be part of his wedding.

“Of course I can come,” Harry says, and then pauses. “Wait, when is it?”

“December 13th.”

“Of this year? But that’s in less than three weeks.”

“Well, technically you would need to be here for the rehearsal dinner on Friday, and it’s a long flight, so—”

“Please tell me you just decided to get married, like, yesterday.”

“Er…”

“Niall.”

“I didn’t know where you were! I sent an invitation to the last address I had from you, but it got returned, then Gemma told me—”

“Of course she did.”

Niall continues on as if Harry hadn’t stopped him. “Gemma told me you were back, and gave me your new number, and, well, here we are.”

“Here we are,” Harry echoes. And then his stomach drops, because he doesn’t even know who Niall’s marrying; hasn’t kept up with his life enough to even know he was dating someone, much less dating someone seriously enough that he would get fucking _married_ to them.

“Who is it?” he asks. “I mean, who are you marrying?”

There’s a pause then, and Harry wishes he could see their faces right now, because he’s a bit worried Niall’s pissed off at him, but his fears are swiftly quashed when Niall’s familiar cackle fills his ear.

“I know I forgot to tell you something,” he laughs. “It’s—”

“It’s me!” another voice calls, and Harry can’t place who it is at first, and then…

“Shawn? You’re marrying Shawn?”

“Don’t sound so damn surprised,” Niall says, laughter still colouring his tone. “Of course it’s Shawn.”

That explains Canada, Harry thinks to himself. And, out loud he says, “Congratulations, man. I’m really happy for you.” And he really does mean it, even though out of the four of them, Niall was the last one he actually expected to get married. If he’s honest, he always assumed that eventually Liam would convince—-

Nevermind.

(Harry knows better than to bring that up.)

Niall’s speaking again, and Harry’s forced to ask him to repeat his words, wincing slightly when Niall tells him, “You can bring a date, of course.”

“Oh, uh. Uhm, thank you,” Harry says, and he’s got no idea who he’d even bring with him, if he’s honest. It’s not like he can ask Louis to go with him. (Or can he?)

Harry stands up then, suddenly feeling restless, and begins pacing while he talks. Louis looks up at him inquisitively, and Harry waves off his concern. Louis shrugs and returns his attention to his own phone as Harry leaves the room and heads for the hallway.

After hashing out the rest of the details with Niall - and Liam, and Shawn (Harry still can’t believe that, and probably won’t until he sees them in the flesh) in addition to calling his Mum to see if she can watch Beau while he’s gone - he takes a deep breath and returns to the kitchen.

The timing is rather unfortunate, as Beau’s school holidays don’t start until that next week, and her school is particularly strict about pulling children out for anything beyond an illness. Harry is disappointed, because he’d love his friends to meet his daughter, but there’s always the future.

He doesn’t fancy going alone, though. Which is why he makes possibly his maddest decision since he offered to let Beau’s footie coach move into their house on a semi-permanent basis. He’s going to invite Louis.

Harry’s renewed presence pulls Louis’ attention from his phone, and he looks up at Harry curiously. “Is everything alright?”

Harry nods, unsure of how to broach the subject. He opts to do it quickly, like yanking off a plaster.

“I’ve been invited a wedding,” Harry says.

“Oh?”

“In Canada.”

“And you need someone to housesit for you?”

“What? No, my mum offered to do that. And she’ll be watching Beau as well, as she can’t go. Unfortunately.” Louis frowns at that, and Harry has to agree, because he knows how much she likes to travel. “Actually…I was going to ask… If you wouldn’t mind… You don’t have to say yes…” Harry interjects quickly, “but I was wondering if you wanted to maybe…be my plus one?”

“Like a date?” Louis raises his eyebrows, and Harry feels himself go a bit pink.

“Um.” Harry hadn’t actually considered that Louis would ask that question, because of course he’d like it to be a date. Or at least have a certain date-like quality. (Even as much as he tries to deny it.) But he doesn’t want to make Louis feels pressured, so he just smiles and says, “No, just as friends.”

“Friends?” Louis seems to take a moment to mull over Harry’s offer. “Sure, that sounds fun.”

“You didn’t even ask when it was,” Harry says.

“When is it?”

“13th of December. But we’d have to leave that Wednesday. I’m… I’m in the wedding, so, you know…”

“I do know,” Louis says, “I’m familiar with how weddings work. Been to a few meself, actually.”

“Oh, have you?” Harry asks, his voice light and teasing now, prompting Louis to stick out his tongue. Harry giggles, partially to himself, and notices that in his absence the water for his porridge has begun to boil.

“So, what are your plans for today?” Harry asks Louis from his spot at the hob after dumping in the oats. (It should worry him how easily they’ve fallen into this comfortable morning routine, but Louis’ been here for almost two months now and the easy domesticity just feels natural at this point.)

Louis hums. “Nothing much, figured Clifford might like a trip to the park, and I promised I’d meet the lads for a game of footie this afternoon, then maybe pick up lunch on the way home. Indian sound good?”

Harry nods, and then remembers Louis can’t see him, so he says, “Sounds brilliant,” and returns to stirring the porridge.

“What about you?” he hears Louis ask, and he shrugs - once again forgetting Louis can’t see him - and then says “Promised I’d call my mum today, then I’ve got some stuff to work on in the garden, and I suppose I can find some things to fix up around the house. Other than that…not much.” He’s hit with the realisation suddenly, and it sits unpleasantly in his gut, a restlessness that he’s been trying to ignore, the itch to just… Do something. Harry’s…

Harry’s bored.

“You’ve got a busy day then,” Louis chuckles, one that Harry makes an effort to return, but it comes out sounding hollow.

“Yeah. Guess I do.” He can’t seem to help the bitterness that’s seeped into his words, and, not for the first time, he desperately wishes he and Louis weren’t so weirdly attuned to each other, because now he’s picked up on Harry’s weird mood, and is standing up from the table.

“Haz? Is something wrong?”

Harry shakes his head, hoping Louis will just drop the subject, but he only moves closer.

“Are you sure? You seem upset?”

“’m fine,” he insists. “Really, it’s nothing.”

Louis doesn’t look convinced as he rests his hand on Harry’s forearm, but he stops pushing, just tells Harry, “You know you can talk to me, yeah?” and pats his arm twice when Harry nods in response. This seems to satisfy Louis enough that he doesn’t ask again, but he’s quiet for the remainder of his time in the kitchen, and still looks off as he bids Harry goodbye for the day. He makes a mental note to ask Louis what’s up when he sees him this afternoon, and lets him leave.

  
* * *

Harry doesn’t ask Louis what’s up later. Not because he’s chickened out, or anything, but because he’s too distracted by his curry. And his new idea.

“You signed up for the PTA? And you’re already in charge of a committee? Bloody hell, Harry, I was barely gone four hours.”

“Yeah, well, I decided I needed something to… I don’t know… Do? I don’t do anything; I need to be doing something.”

“Sounds like you’re doing a pretty big something,” Louis says. “Have you ever planned an event like this before?”

“Well, no,” Harry admits, “but I remember watching my mum do it when I was younger. Plus, I’ve got the time.”

“It’s not the time I’m worried about.”

Harry frowns. “You don’t have to be worried about anything. Why would you be worried?”

Louis shoves his mouth full of chicken, and Harry takes his lack of an answer as a cue to return his attention to the papers in front of him. Louis’ been here long enough that Harry knows he can’t force answers out of the other man, so he focuses his energy on the event planning.

He’s so absorbed in his task that he doesn’t notice Louis’ left the room until the sun begins to set, bathing the usually sunlit kitchen in shadows. The food has been picked up, and when Harry checks he finds the takeaway containers in the fridge (with _dates_ even) and the cutlery in the dishwasher basket.

Sometimes, when Louis does things like this for him, it feels like Louis’ more than just a guest; and sometimes, it scares Harry how much he wishes that were true.

* * *

He signs up for a book club the same day he picks up journaling. The book club takes place on the last Thursday of every month, and when Harry returns from his little adventure with the assigned book and new leather journal, he feels calmer and more sure of himself than he has in weeks.

Unfortunately, while Harry has had a good day, Beau has not.

Apparently, kids at school haven’t been impressed by, well, everything about her, if the stories she’s brought home are anything to go by. Today, however, seems like it was a particularly nasty one, and she’d burst into tears as soon as Harry’d picked her up after school.

The memory of that, the way it made him feel - sick, helpless - will stick with him for a long time.

She’d spent the rest of the afternoon wallowing in her room until it was time for Louis to come home, and then she’d immediately run to him and started crying again. Louis had looked at Harry, alarmed, who mouthed that he’d tell him later. Despite the fact that he still had no idea what was wrong, Louis still suggested they take their dinner in the form of a picnic, and that’s how Harry found himself back in the same place he’d ran into Louis with Gemma weeks ago.

Harry - with some help from Louis - had prepared some of Beau’s favourite things to eat, including a quick batch of no-bake cookies that she’s already eaten four of. It’s a pretty good spread considering the short notice, if Harry does say so himself. The task also served as a distraction from his negative thoughts, but now that the meal was over and Beau was eager to go off and play, Harry felt them coming back. Louis must sense he needs to talk, because he ruffles Beau’s hair and says, “Why don’t you go check out the trees over there and see if you can find us a good one to climb, yeah?”

“Yeah!” she cheers.

“But don’t climb any until one of us is with you,” Harry reminds her.

“I know, Daddy, don’t worry.”

“Okay, Bo-bear. We’ll be along in a moment.”

“Don’t take too long!” she says, and then takes off running in the opposite direction.

Harry watches her go and waits until she’s out of earshot before saying, “They’ve been making fun of her accent. And other things, but today was the accent.”

Louis tilts his head, looking confused. “What accent?”

“Exactly.”

“Ooh, that accent.”

“Yeah.”

“Bloody hell, kids’ll give each other shit over anything these days.”

“Yeah.”

“You doing okay?”

Harry sighs. “It just sucks. No parent wants their child to get bullied.”

“Well, yeah, obviously not.”

“I feel like I’ve failed her.”

“Don’t be daft, of course you haven’t failed her. Idiot. You’re, like, literally the best dad ever.”

“Careful, Lou,” Harry laughs. “That was dangerously close to a compliment.”

“I’m serious, though. You really are.”

“I just don’t get it, though. She loves everything and everyone so much, how could they not love her back?” He winces - he hadn’t intended for the conversation to turn so heavy - and is about to change the subject when Louis rests a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“You know it’s really not your fault, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t sound like you believe me, mister.”

Harry shrugs. “I’m trying.”

“‘s all I ask,” he says, patting Harry’s arm twice, and then pausing to squint in the direction where Beau’s been playing. “What’s she doing over there? Is she— I think she’s chasing a squirrel?”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.” Harry laughs softly, already starting to feel slightly better just from this short conversation. “She’s always running after things, always had so much energy.” He grins at the memories, and continues. “When she was a toddler, and I was too tired to chase her around, I’d let her chase a drone.”

“What the hell? A _drone_?”

“I mean, not, like, a big one? Just this little thing I got from a friend that we’d fly around whenever we were bored. Beau was fascinated by it, and the routine just kind of stuck.”

“The robots really are taking over,” Louis deadpans. “You don’t even have to play with your own children anymore.”

“I was playing with her!” Harry says defensively. “Just… In a different way.”

“Oh, Harold.”

“And I suppose you’re so much better at it.”

“Of course I am,” Louis replies. “Watch this.”

And Harry does. He watches Louis run up to Beau, past Beau, and then right up to the rather large oak she’d been playing under. He bites his lip as Louis scales the trunk, worried the other man will fall, until his daughter’s excited laughter breaks him free of his trepidation, and he sees that Louis’ made it up to the first branch and is smiling triumphantly in his direction. It’s too bloody adorable.

He pulls his phone from his coat pocket to check the time, as he’s supposed to call Janet tonight to go over the final plans for the disco at Beau’s school. It’s still early enough, though, and when he looks up, Louis’ hanging from a branch by his knees and pulling silly faces for Beau. Eventually, he pulls himself back up - Harry is definitely not wondering about how strong his abdominal muscles must be - and hops back to the ground. He’s still for only a second before crossing his eyes at Harry and executing a perfect cartwheel. And then another. And then another, until Beau is jumping up and down and clapping enthusiastically.

“Teach me how to do one!” she begs.

“Of course,” he says easily, and turns to Harry. “What about you, Hazza? Wanna learn?”

Harry shakes his head. “I’m not very coordinated.”

“That’s not new to me, nor does it mean you can’t learn. C’mon, old man, we’re going to learn how to do a handstand.”

“Hold on, I thought I agreed to cartwheels.”

“Technically, you didn’t agree to anything.”

“Wait, yeah, I didn’t, so—”

“We’re doing this.”

Harry doesn’t argue any further, and Louis just winks at him before bending down, bracing his hands on the grass and kicking his feet in the air. He moves forward a few inches, legs swinging slightly until he seems to find a good position. He’s barely breathing hard as he grins up at Harry.

“See? It’s easy.”

“My turn!” Beau shouts, and she attempts to imitate what Louis had done, except she overshoots her kick and ends up flat on her back on the grass. Harry goes running to her side in an instant, relieved when he sees that she’s only giggling.

Still, he asks, “Are you okay?” She nods and he helps her up off the ground. Louis walks over to them, still on his hands, and Harry has to duck to his left to avoid getting kicked in the face by one of Louis’ Vans.

“Valiant effort, young Bo-bear,” he tells her. “Next time try it a little softer, though, yeah?”

“I wanna do a cartwheel now.”

“Aw, don’t give up yet.”

“Not giving up,” she insists. “Just wanna do a cartwheel first.”

“Okay, let’s do that then.” With a grunt, Louis rights himself again, leaving Harry to mourn his once again obstructed view of Louis’ stomach. Which is fine, because it’s not like he was really looking, anyway. Honest.

“You gonna join us, Hazza?” Louis asks, and Harry shakes his head quickly.

“I don’t know how to do cartwheels.”

“Neither do I,” Beau reminds him. “That’s why Lou’s gonna teach us.”

“The girl makes a valid point,” Louis grins, and Harry grimaces.

“Trust me, I can’t do a cartwheel.”

“Too old?”

“No,” he rolls his eyes. “Just clumsy, is all.”

“Why are you telling me this like I don’t already know?”

Harry shrugs.

“Well, you aren’t getting out of this.”

“Fine,” he sighs, “but if I get hurt, then you have to drive us home.”

(And that’s how Harry managed to get out of cartwheel lessons.)

* * *

The car ride home from the park is significantly more cheerful than the one there, and Harry knows he owes it all to Louis.

“She seems to be feeling better now,” Harry observes as they make their way out to the back garden. “Thank you.”

“’course,” Louis says, “It’s not a problem. And those kids are wankers, anyway. She shouldn’t listen to them.”

Harry’s shoulders slump. “She usually doesn’t.”

“Hey. _Hey_. Don’t start on that again, yeah? It’s not worth it.”

“I know, but it’s hard.”

“I know, trust me, okay? But you can’t keep beating yourself up about it. Especially because she needs you right now, and she needs you positive. ‘m not saying you have to smile, obviously, but repeating those negative thoughts to yourself over and over helps no one.”

“When did you get so philosophical?”

“This isn’t philosophical, it’s just facts.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Of course I am,” Louis says confidently, and Harry elbows him, earning himself one right back. Louis doesn’t say anything more, and Harry distracts himself from his unwanted thoughts by watching the way Louis’ skin seems to glow golden in the fading daylight. It works a little too well, however, when he realises Louis’ been trying to get his attention.

Or not, actually. He’s just speaking to Beau - or maybe he’d just given up on Harry responding. Either way, Harry watches him lean down and ask Beau, “What d’you wanna play now, sweetheart?”

“Football?” she asks hopefully, and Louis shakes his head and laughs.

“You really can’t get enough of the sport, can you?”

“Balls are in the shed,” Harry tells him, and he’s absolutely expecting Louis’ snort at his use of the word ‘balls’. (He finds it funny too, if he’s honest. Louis’ not the only one with a juvenile sense of humour here.)

“Shall I fetch us one ball or two?” Louis giggles, and Harry rolls his eyes.

“Very funny.”

“Glad you’re learning to recognise my comedic genius, Haz. It’s about bloody time.”

“When did you become a comedic genius?”

“Oi, we just went over this.”

Harry watches fondly as Louis stalks off to the shed - he really shouldn’t look that cute walking away in a huff like that - and then turns his attention to Beau who’s waiting patiently for him to peel the plastic off of her bottle of bubble soap.

A few moments later, Harry hears an indigent squawk coming from inside the shed, and he goes to investigate what’s got Louis so riled up. Beau’s concentrating hard enough on her bubble blowing that she doesn’t follow him, which is a good thing, because the first thing Louis says to him upon his arrival is “What the fuck is this?”

“A football?”

Louis scoffs. “This isn’t a football.”

“Technically…” he starts, and Louis holds up a hand.

“I don’t want to hear it.”

Harry giggles, because, _honestly_ , Louis’ being a bit ridiculous. Only Louis doesn’t seem to think it’s ridiculous. At all. “Technically, it _is_ called a football.”

“See, all I’m hearing is that you think you can call anything by the wrong name and it becomes that thing.”

“Lou…”

“Leonard.”

“Wha—”

Louis smiles cheekily. “See? I can do it too. _Leonard_.”

“Oh my God.”

“I’m just taking the piss; I really don’t care what kind of sport you like - even if American football is a game for twats with no talent.”

“Take that back,” Harry pretends to growl.

“Or what?” Louis challenges, and steps forward, close enough that Harry’s forced to move away until his back hits the wall, and close enough that Louis has to tilt his head back a bit to hold eye contact with him. “What’re you gonna do about it?”

Harry swallows. And swallows again, because Louis’ watching him intently, obviously waiting for an answer, but smirking like he knows Harry won’t be able to give him one. His third swallow is more difficult, as his throat is beginning to go dry, and he clears it loudly in an attempt to break the charged silence that’s managed to fill the shed.

“Well?” Louis smirk hasn’t wavered, it’s almost worse now, and Harry’s just starting to formulate a coherent answer when he hears the squeak of the door hinge and sees the floor flooded with sunlight.

“I’m bored now,” Beau whines. “Let’s do something else.”

Eternally grateful for his daughter’s terrible sense of timing, Harry quickly spins around and follows her back into the house. He hears Louis mutter something behind him, but doesn’t dare ask him to clarify - he can guess what it is, and he’s not quite sure he’d like a proper confirmation.

Beau’s next idea turns out to be constructing the biggest blanket fort they can, and he busies himself with collecting sheets and blankets while Louis and Beau stay behind in the living room to plan (Beau) and move furniture around (Louis).

The process is relatively easy, though Harry’s not sure it will be able to fit all three of them. Louis, however, ignores his perfectly reasonable protests with an eye roll and a dismissive snort.

“Just get in the fucking blanket fort,” he whispers, quietly enough that - hopefully - Beau doesn’t hear. Harry rolls his eyes, but follows Louis in, who drops the sheet, enveloping them in the soft light of the lanterns that make Louis glow even more than usual; Harry finds himself breathless at the sight. He tries to cover it up by suggesting they tell ghost stories, but it backfires when Louis pretends to get scared and leans into Harry’s space, burying his head into his neck. It’s maddening, and Harry is not proud of himself for what he does next.

To be fair, any fort that comes down that easily wasn’t very well constructed in the first place, and Harry was just doing Beau a favour by tearing it down. She, understandably, doesn’t see it the same way, and Harry has to work hard to ignore Louis’ curious stare as he frees himself from underneath a pile of pink sheets while also apologising profusely to her, claiming clumsiness.

Louis smirks like he knows better, but still teases Harry about the incident for the rest of the evening, and when he and Beau rebuild the fort, Harry isn’t allowed inside. There’s even a cardboard sign to inform him of this fact, written in Louis’ own handwriting, and Harry finds himself already making plans to save it once the game is over.

He tries not to dwell on what that might mean. (Mostly because he already knows.)

* * *

Harry’s kitchen table is currently buried under various lists, charts, and forms, all relating to the upcoming disco the PTA is planning at Beau’s school. The planning of the event had begun long before he joined the PTA, but the final stages were his responsibility now. It’s all a bit exciting, really.

Ten women are currently staring back at him, waiting for him to give his opinion on how many flavours of ice cream they should buy, and all he can think about is how when he was organising all of this last night, Louis had popped into the kitchen to grab a snack and quipped that he had no idea how Harry was keeping track of it all.

At the time, Harry had assured him it was all under control, and it was. Sort of. Sort of under control. Sort of, as in not really under control. At all.

(Not that Harry would ever admit that out loud.)

Still, Harry was the one to suggest they have ice cream sundaes instead of the usual cupcakes, so he understands why so many of the decisions are falling on him. He’s in the middle of sharing said decisions with the other parents when the room goes especially quiet, and Harry’s realises everyone’s eyes are no longer on him, but on the man who’s just entered the room in a threadbare vest and his rattiest joggers. He watches as Louis makes his way to the fridge without acknowledging anyone else in the room, either completely unaware of the attention he’s getting, or having too much fun ignoring it.

The silence is broken when Elaine, the woman sat on Harry’s right, breaks the silence. “Oh!” she says excitedly “Is this your husband?”

Louis deserves to choke on that milk, Harry thinks a bit meanly, seeing as he was drinking it straight from the carton like it was his own house. And then he remembers that Louis bought that milk himself because he hated putting Harry’s almond-coconut blend in his morning cuppa. He takes back the mean thoughts, and stands up quickly.

“Lou, are you okay?”

Louis holds up a finger, indicating that he needs a minute. Harry approaches him carefully anyway, like one would a trapped animal, and feels silly about it when he sees everyone is staring.

Another woman speaks up. “I know you! You’re my daughter’s football coach.”

Louis’ smile is a bit pained, but Harry admires his effort anyway.

“I probably am,” Louis says.

“So,” Elaine butts back in, because she’s a terrible gossip. “Is this your husband?”

“Erm, no,” Harry says.

“Boyfriend?”

“Nope.”

Louis’ looking back and forth between them now, obviously amused at Harry’s discomfort. “Aw, sugarplum,” he says, his voice so saccharine Harry’s tempted to pinch him a bit. “Am I a secret, then?”

Harry glares at him, now painfully aware that everyone’s attention is fully back on him. For the exact wrong reason. “Louis is just a _friend_ ,” he says, “who’s staying with us while his flat gets repaired.”

“It flooded,” Louis supplies, although no one asked, and everyone around the table clucks sympathetically.

“That happened t’me a few months back,” Samantha tells them, “it was a right pain in the arse to get fixed. Practically had to drag the builders by the ear to finish.”

“I seem to be having the same problem,” Louis says, “I’ve been fighting both them and my landlord for far longer than the two weeks I was promised. Luckily…” He points to Harry. “Luckily Harold here has been kind enough to allow me to stay until it’s finally finished.”

“I didn’t know your name was Harold,” someone says, and Harry doesn’t catch who, because he’s glaring too hard at Louis now.

“It’s not,” he says tersely.

“Oh, come on, Harold,” Louis snickers, “don’t be embarrassed. It’s a perfectly respectable name.”

He doesn’t know why Louis’ teasing is getting to him so strongly at this particular moment, but it _is_ , and he wants it to stop. “Don’t you need to take Clifford out?” he says, bringing a halt to the titters around him.

Louis cocks his head. “But I just took him for a—”

“I think you should take him out again,” Harry says, and Louis seems to understand what Harry’s saying, because he’s smiling apologetically at the table.

“Well, Ladies and Harold, I’ve got to run now, but it was nice meeting all of you.”

With one last grin and a wink in Harry’s direction, he disappears from the room.

Harry can’t bring the meeting back to order after that, and they’re forced to wrap up early. He’d be cross with Louis if he didn’t miss his presence so much.

But he does, so he isn’t, and everything is just too bloody confusing.

(He blames Louis.)


	4. Chapter 4

Harry is the most organised person Louis has ever met, and he’s absolutely certain he’s one of those strange people that actually enjoy receiving office supplies as a present. And even genuinely say thank you. And be, like, ecstatic. It’s weird. And sort of adorable. Unfortunately. Harry has a bad habit of being adorable, even when he’s cross with Louis, apparently. Because Harry looks like an angry kitten when he’s angry, and Louis has a hard time taking him seriously.

(He occasionally might also try to rile Harry up a bit on purpose, just to see said angry kitten face, but you didn’t hear that from him.)

All week, Harry’s been particularly on edge, no thanks to all the pressure he’s put on himself over the bloody PTA shit - not to mention the book club, and the gardening club, and whatever other crap he’s taken up that Louis suspects are being hidden from him.

He’s so absorbed in the match on the telly that he doesn’t notice Harry enter the room until the other man flops down on the sofa next to him. The sudden shift in the cushions causes him to start.

“Why is the room spinning?” Harry says aloud, looking a bit unsteady even sat down, and Louis looks away from the TV, alarmed.

“What?”

“I said, why is the room spinning? I feel weird, like…”

It’s then that Louis notices how terrible Harry looks. His cheeks are flushed - more than usual - and his brow is sweaty.

“Shit, Harry. You’re ill.”

“I am not,” Harry insists, and then is overcome with a hacking cough. Once he’s done, he sits back up, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and says, “See? ‘m completely fine.”

“You are not fine,” Louis informs him, “you are ill, and apparently forgot that you stumbled into this very room not even five minutes ago complaining that it was spinning.”

“I did? Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re an idiot,” Louis informs Harry. “Why are you even out of bed? You look like a plague victim, mate.”

“I can’t be ill,” Harry protests, “there’s too much to do to prepare for the disco.”

“You can’t possibly leave the house like this.”

Harry looks confused, and then coughs. Louis winces at the sound of the other man’s hacking, and reaches out to rub his back soothingly. Harry finishes coughing, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“It’s just a little cough. I’m fine!” Harry insists, and Louis frowns. He doesn’t look fine, not one bit. He’s sweaty and flushed, and looks like he’s ready to collapse at any moment.

“You’re not fine,” Louis says as he lets his hand drop from Harry’s back, “and I’m not letting you go out today.”

“No!” Harry tries to protest, and then descends into another coughing fit. “Today’s your day off,” he says in between coughs. “You shouldn’t spend your day off taking care of me.”

“Stop being an idiot and let me help you,” Louis snaps, harsher than he intends, but it seems to work, because Harry stops arguing then, allowing himself to be pulled into a standing position, and leaning most of his weight against Louis, who slowly guides him forward. “C’mon, love,” he says gently, “I’m taking you to bed.”

Once he manages to get Harry up the stairs and into bed, Louis pulls the blanket over Harry, pushing and nudging him into a position Louis figures will be comfortable. He steps back, he watches Harry’s face relax as he falls into a deeper sleep. He looks so peaceful and happy now that Louis is half-tempted to lie down as well, and only the fear of catching Harry’s illness keeps him away. (And the fact that, well, Harry isn’t his to hold.)

Instead, he leaves the room and goes to tidy up the house and check Harry’s to-do list to see if there’s any way he can help take the burden off the other man.

He tells himself it’s only to feel like his debt has been repaid.

* * *

Two hours later, Harry’s still fast asleep, and Louis needs a distraction. He goes hunting for the remote, and once he finally locates it, tasks himself with finding something suitable to watch on the telly. It’s not hard, considering Harry’s got nearly every channel known to man - and then some.

He sits down on the buttery brown leather sofa and lets himself sink into the cushions, smiling when he hears the familiar tinkle of Miss Kitty’s collar tags.

“Hello, darling,” he coos when she appears in the doorway, “are you here to join me?”

She stays in place, flicking her tail and watching with a bored expression as Louis pats the seat next to him in what he hopes is an enticing manner.

“C’mon, love,” he tries again, “there’s no big, bad doggy to chase you away this time.” Louis chuckles, because if anyone is big and bad here, it certainly isn’t Clifford. The dismissive meow lets Louis know Miss Kitty feels the same, but she still lingers in the doorway.

“Fine,” he huffs, “be that way.”

Louis isn’t pouting. He’s not. And he’s definitely not when he catches a glimpse of his phone screen, which happily reminds him that Beau gets out of school in 30 minutes. Harry is in no shape to drive, Louis knows, and he also knows the school won’t allow anyone who isn’t on their list to pick her up.

He’s about to start pacing when he remembers Anne, and then he really does start pacing when he realises he doesn’t have her number.

But Harry does.

It’s not right. Louis is breaking, like, every housemate rule by going through Harry’s phone. He figures Harry won’t mind. Not if it’s for Beau.

Clifford chooses that moment to wake from his eternal slumber, and comes bounding after Louis as he attempts to stealthily enter Harry’s bedroom.

“No!” Louis hisses. “We have to be quiet.”

Clifford takes this to mean “please bark loudly,” and proceeds to do just that.

Louis groans, but continues on his mission, hoping the cough medicine knocked Harry out well enough that he won’t notice a little B&E. (Or an over-excited labradoodle.)

Harry’s phone is charging on his bedside table, and Louis debates trying to figure out his passcode. In the end, he decides the risks outweigh the rewards - and he really doesn’t want to explain to Harry why his phone’s locked for the next three years - so he holds his breath and very, very, carefully reaches for Harry’s hand. He’s hyper-aware of every sound in the room: Clifford’s panting. Harry’s gentle snores. The squeak of the floorboard as he shifts closer to the bed.

Louis bites back a swear as he guides Harry’s index finger to his phone, pressing it against the scanner and letting out a sigh of relief when it unlocks. The guilt over his action is still there, but he really does need Anne’s number, so he keeps going. Besides, it’s not like he’s digging through Harry’s phone for anything more than his mum’s number; he won’t even look through his photos. (Not that he’s tempted, or anything.)

He chuckles when he sees “Mummy <3” in Harry’s recent calls, because of course that’s what he’s saved Anne as, and presses call before remembering he’s still standing over Harry. He eases the phone off the charger, and steps out of the room. As he listens to the ringing, it hits him that he’s calling with Harry’s phone, but then figures Anne’s more likely to answer that than an unknown number, so he doesn’t hang up.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she says when she finally answers, and Louis doesn’t know what to say at first. He clears his throat.

“Anne? It’s Louis.”

“Oh! Louis! Why are you calling from Harry’s phone? Is he okay? Has something happened?”

“No, he’s fine,” Louis assures her quickly. “Well, actually, no. He’s ill, but not, like, seriously ill. Just enough that he can’t drive.”

Anne makes a noise like she understands. “Do you need me to get Beau, then?”

“That’d be great,” he replies, “I’d do it, but…”

“Don’t worry, love, I get it. I don’t mind.”

Louis notes that she sounds calmer now, and regrets not opening with something more calming; he hadn’t meant to worry her like that. “Thank you again,” he says.  
  
“Of course,” Anne says. There’s a shuffling noise in the background. “Would you like me to swing by and get you first?”

“Nah,” he replies, thinking of Harry waking up disoriented and alone, “I think it’d be better if I stayed here.”

“If you’re sure.”

Louis nods, then realises she can’t see him through the phone. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Alright.” There’s another shuffling noise, then the sound of a door opening and closing. “I’ll keep Beau at mine for the night, then you can ring me tomorrow and give an update on Harry.”

“Sounds good.” Then Louis remembers tomorrow is Saturday, and he should probably ring the club to let them know he won’t be there, but Anne speaks up before he can plan much further.

“I can stay with Harry while you and Beau are out tomorrow,” Anne says, and Louis nods gratefully, once again forgetting she can’t see him.

“Thanks,” he answers, “I really appreciate that.”

“I thought you might,” she laughs. “And I also know how disappointed Beau would be to miss her soccer school.” There’s a sound like an engine running, and Louis figures it’s time to end the call. He’s about to say goodbye when an idea forms in his mind.

“Before you go,” he says quickly, beginning to make plans, “I have a question.”

* * *

Louis starts to regret turning down Anne’s offer of help as he reads over the chicken soup recipe she emailed him. It had seemed simple enough when she first explained it to him, but the gaps where she instructed him to “go with his gut” are daunting. How is he supposed to know what vegetables are good in soup? And furthermore, why does Harry have so bloody many?

Miss Kitty makes her presence in the room known as she rubs up against Louis’ ankles, and he’s so pleased that he doesn’t even mind that she’s nearly caused him to trip and fall. “Are you going to help me then?” he asks her, and laughs when she looks at him balefully. “Okay, okay, I’ll do it meself.” He laughs again when she meows back and brushes past him to get to her water bowl.

He watches her go, and then switches his attention back to his task and works to recall the things his mum used to put in soup as he digs through the crisper drawer, pulling out carrots and celery and even a head of green cabbage. Harry had mentioned once how much he loved peas, and Louis figures those won’t hurt, so he opens the freezer in search of a frozen bag.

While in there, he spots some large glass jars labelled “broth (vegetable)” and rolls his eyes, because of course Harry can’t use something from a fucking shop. A voice that sounds suspiciously like Beau tells him he needs to put a pound in the swear jar, but he ignores it in favour of choosing a jar and wincing as he removes it. (Glass is cold, okay?)

If Louis was making this for himself he’d add chicken, but he can’t and he doesn’t know what to use as a substitute.

Beans. He can add beans. Bean and vegetable soup is a thing, right? Louis remembers his Mum making something similar. Probably. Well, _Anne_ had told him to go with his gut. Plus, Harry might still be so doped up on cough medicine that he won’t notice Louis’ made him something terrible. (Hopefully.)

Louis prepares the vegetables to go in the pot - something he doesn’t remember taking so long when he’s observed Harry doing it - and goes to dump them in just as the song changes. He starts to sing along, swaying his hips to the music while double-checking the recipe to see what comes next.

“ _If you change your mind, I’m the first in line. Honey I’m still free, take a chance on_ — oh!”

Louis had been so absorbed in his task that he hadn’t heard Harry enter the kitchen until Harry had coughed. The sudden noise causes Miss Kitty to bolt from the room, which makes Louis frown. He was hoping they’d finally started bonding.

His frown quickly turns into a grin, however, when he notices how much better Harry looks after his lengthy rest. And then back into a frown when Harry wrinkles his nose and asks, “Is this a fever dream?”

Louis rolls his eyes and snorts. “’friad not, mate.”

Harry hmms. “I thought you hated ABBA.”

“Only when you’re singing it, love.”

Harry snorts at the joking insult, and Louis chuckles in return.

“You feelin’ better, then?” he asks Harry.

Harry nods. “I think I’ll be okay to host the meeting tomorrow.”

Louis shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Hate to break it to you, Lou, but I’m a grown man, and I’m perfectly capable of making my own decisions.”

“Oh, are you? Is that why you thought it was a good idea to run yourself ragged planning this bloody event to the point of illness? Hmm?”

Harry has the decency to look guilty, but he still attempts to defend himself. Sort of. “Shut up.”

“That’s mature.”

Harry flushes.

“Fine, you’re right. I’ve been overworking myself,” Harry admits.

“Fucking finally,” Louis says. “You’re bloody stubborn, did you know that?”

“I’ve been told that, yeah.” Harry sits down at the kitchen table, making Louis jump as he sneezes loudly.

“Jesus, Harry. You almost made me drop the salt shaker.”

“Sorry,” he apologises before sneezing again, and Louis set the salt down before he really does drop it, scanning the room for a box of tissues. When he locates one, he grabs a few and brings them to the table.

Louis leans down next to Harry and hands him the tissue. Harry accepts it gratefully, burying his nose in it as he sneezes twice in rapid succession.

“That’s it,” Louis soothes, “get them sneezes out.”

Harry lets out a loud bark of a laugh, which sends him into a coughing fit that makes Louis wince in sympathy. When he’s done, Harry just looks at him, laughter still visible in his eyes. “Get them sneezes out?”

“It’s something I used to tell my sisters,” he says, “I guess it’s a force of habit now, sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologise,” Harry says. “It was cute.”

“Cute? Since when am I cute? I’m rugged and manly, thank you very much.”

“I didn’t say _you_ were cute. I said the phrase was cute. You must be a good big brother.”

Louis shrugs nonchalantly. “I guess. Suppose I kinda had to be, really. Not that I minded,” he says quickly, “because I adore all of them, and don’t blame my mum for having them. But a lot of responsibility fell on me when my older sisters went off to uni, y’know? I just wanted to be a kid.”

Louis stops, because he’s bordering on sounding ungrateful, but the expression on Harry’s face doesn’t look judgemental. He doesn’t even look like he’s taking pity on Louis, he just looks… Curious. Like he really wants to hear what Louis has to say.

So Louis continues, and Harry listens, and it goes on until Harry’s fed and back in bed and Louis’ left alone with his thoughts again.

* * *

When Louis drives to work that Monday he’s exhausted. Between taking care of Harry and the fact that there was a big storm last night - pretty much the only thing Clifford is properly afraid of - he’s barely slept. (And what little sleep he’d got was spent slowly suffocating to death under Clifford’s weight while his dog slept soundly.)

His day passes in a blur of phone calls and snide comments from Kyle, until he can finally leave. It’s dangerous how much Louis looks forward to leaving work now. He suspects it’s because he’s no longer going home to a (nearly) empty flat to eat takeaway own his own in front of the telly with only Clifford for company. Not that Clifford isn’t excellent company - and a champion cuddle-buddy - but he doesn’t talk. Or cook homemade meals. Or pick up after himself.

Not like Harry does.

Harry’s a great housemate, really. Louis is perfectly aware of how spoiled he’s been lately. Which is why he wants to do something nice for them; maybe cook dinner, or something. Harry had seemed to like the soup he’d made, but perhaps someone so ill isn’t the best judge when it comes to food quality. But he’d still eaten it, so it couldn’t have been that bad. (Hopefully.) Louis’ not a terrible cook, not really, he’s just… Well, he’s just not very good at it. His mum had always tried to teach him, but nothing ever stuck, not even simple chicken dishes.

Still, he’d like to give it a try.

He calls up Fizzy first, figuring she’s the least likely to ask questions regarding his sudden interest in cooking. But, instead of Fizzy, he’s greeted by Lottie’s familiar voice. He pulls the phone away from his ear to double check that he’d dialled the right number, and wrinkles his brow when he sees that he did indeed call his other sister.

“Lots? Where’s Fizzy? Is she okay?”

“What? Of course she’s okay.”

“Then why did you answer her phone?”

“I didn’t— Oh, shit, this is her phone.”

“Christ, Lottie, you almost gave me a heart attack. I thought something bad had happened.”

“Sorry,” she apologises, and she really does sound sorry, because they’re both too aware of what those kind of phone calls feel like.

“So,” he says, working to pull himself out of his melancholy thoughts before they spiral out of control, “can I talk to my other sister now?”

“Which one?”

“Very funny.”

“No, seriously, which one?”

“Lots, you answered Fizzy’s phone.”

“Oh, yeah.” There’s a shuffling noise on her end, and Louis isn’t prepared for the shrill “Fizzy!” that comes through the speaker as Lottie hasn’t moved the phone far away from her mouth.

“Holy shit, are you actually trying to make me go deaf over here?”

“Shit, sorry.”

“Why do you have my phone?” he hears Fizzy ask, and Lottie swears as Louis assumes the phone is taken by its rightful owner.

“Hi, Lou.”

“Hey, Fiz. Do you have a minute?”

“Sure, what’s up?”

“Okay, don’t laugh.”

“I can’t promise anything,” she says, and Louis supposes that’s fair, as he’d do the same.

“Fine,” he sighs. “I need help deciding what to cook for dinner. For Harry and Beau.”

Louis can’t see his sisters expression, but her silence is enough to help paint a picture; he knows exactly what face she’s making, exactly how high her eyebrows have gone and how round her mouth is.

“Wait, why?”

“What d’you mean ‘why?’”

“Why are you subjecting them to your cooking?”

“Okay, first of all, rude, and second, I can cook and you know it, I need ideas. And less judgement, fucking hell, Fiz.”

“Right, sorry,” she laughs, and Louis makes a face.

“I told you not to laugh.”

“And I told you no promises,” she reminds him. And then continues after a contemplative pause. “Actually, I do know something you could try…”

“Hit me,” he says, trying to keep the excitement from his voice, and he’s still writing down her instructions when Clifford starts barking, the front door marking the familiar creaking noise that signals Beau’s return from school, and soon he’s joined by both her and Harry.

“Hi,” he mouths, and then, “I’ll be right back.”

Harry gives him a thumbs up, and Louis leaves to finish the call. When he returns, Beau’s rucksack is on the table, paper and books spilling out. Louis watches as Harry shuffles some papers around before he asks, “Beau, do you have maths homework?”

“Yeah, but I’ll do it calcu- _later_ ,” she tells her father, who grins happily at the pun.

Louis groans. “That was terrible.”

“I thought it was funny,” Harry says.

“You would.”

Louis receives no actual reply beyond an eye roll - which is fine, he didn’t need one anyway - before Harry sits down at the table next to Beau and sets her rucksack down in front of her. He didn’t even notice Harry had the bloody thing on him; it must be some weird parent magic that he’ll never understand, and Beau groans like she already knows she’s lost the battle.

“Puns won’t get you out of this,” Harry says. “No matter how funny they are. Where did you get that one, anyway?”

She shrugs. “Made it up.”

Louis raises his eyebrows, impressed. “That was clever, Bo-bear.”

He doesn’t realise what he said until he looks up at Harry. The other man’s expression is odd, like he doesn’t quite know how to respond. It’s not weird for Louis to call her that, he’s done it before, but it hits him that he’s never done it in front of Harry. He wonders briefly if he crossed some sort of line until Harry’s face breaks out into a smile and the nervous butterflies in Louis’ gut can finally relax. Not weird, then. Well, still sort of weird, but weird in a good way.

Louis would have to be blind to miss the fact that he cares too much about what Harry thinks of him, and while he isn’t blind - not even a little bit - he’s perfected the art of lying to himself about his feelings. What feelings? He has no feelings towards Harry that aren’t completely platonic. And anyone (Lottie and Fizzy) who says otherwise is wrong, obviously. For fuck’s sake, they haven’t even met Harry, yet they seem to think… They seem to genuinely, actually think… That he’s got feelings for Harry. For Harry Styles. He chalks it up to them wanting their former idol as a brother-in-law or something equally strange.

Which is _not_ going to happen. Because he and Harry Sty— He and _Harry_ are friends. Just friends. Just really good friends. So sometimes he thinks about kissing Harry. That’s just because Harry’s got those nice lips, and Louis can’t be blamed for noticing that. Especially when his tongue is so often darting out to lick them, and—

No.

“So, what’s on the menu for dinner tonight?” he asks quickly, desperate to change the subject, distract himself from his… well, incredibly distracting thoughts.

Harry shrugs. “I didn’t have anything special planned,” he says. “Why, did you want something specific?”

“Nah, I’ll eat whatever you make.”

“Really? That’s a dangerous statement.”

Louis thinks back to some of the things he’s seen Harry eat, and realises he’s right. “Okay, I’ll eat whatever you make _within reason_. And that contains normal ingredients. And no coconut oil.”

“Are you implying you didn’t like that coffee I made the other day?”

“I’m not implying anything,” Louis replies, “I’m being perfectly clear about that fact that it was disgusting and no food with the word ‘bullet’ in the name is trustworthy.”

“Technically, coffee isn’t a food.”

“ _Technically_ , coffee isn’t a food,” Louis mimics, and then rolls his eyes. “I don’t care; besides, I don’t even like normal coffee, so the odds were stacked against you to begin with.”

“You know, making fun of my food choices is not the way to get dinner around here,” Harry laughs, and Louis would take him seriously if he wasn’t so familiar with Harry’s dry sense of humour. Anyone else would think Harry was actually hurt by Louis’ words, but he’s just having fun with the situation, poking fun at Louis.

Well, Louis can poke right back. “Who says I want to eat anything you’d make?”

“Well, the way you demolished the fajitas I made last night is a pretty good clue.”

Louis perks up at this. “Are there any leftovers?”

“Yeah, but they’re not as good the next—”

“I don’t care, those were delicious.”

“Help yourself,” Harry chuckles, and Louis does, completely disregarding the fact that he’ll be the only one eating. Harry doesn’t seem to mind though, tonight feels casual, he feels comfortable enough here to raid Harry’s fridge without any guilt, and that means absolutely nothing about Louis’ feelings. About _anything_.

And the next sister who asks if she can be a bridesmaid is getting written out of his will.

* * *

Louis’ sure he’s addicted to Harry’s cooking by now; everything he makes is just that good. He’s got no idea how he survived so long on pizza and takeaway, neither of which can hold a candle to a homemade meal nearly every night.

He’s glad he changed into joggers before dinner, he can’t stretch out on the sofa with his trousers unbuttoned after every meal. He doesn’t miss that, really, except for the fact that he’s giving up one of his regular cuddle times with Clifford. He really needs to fix that, find another time. For Clifford’s sake, really.

Clifford is less clingy now than he was when they first arrived at Harry’s, his head no longer a presence on Louis’ lap when he eats. Louis’ glad, though, even if it is strange to see how comfortable he - and Louis, actually - are in this new place.

Harry interrupts Louis’ thoughts by asking, “Who wants dessert?”

Beau claps her hands excitedly. “Do we have cookies?”

“We do,” he answers. “Do you want one?”

“Yes, please!”

Harry lifts the lid to the cookie jar and pulls out two large cookies before turning to face the table. “Lou? Cookie?”

“What kind are they?”

“Chocolate chip.”

Louis squints at the jar. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure, I made them.”

“Can I trust you not to trick me?”

“Trick you? Why would I trick you? Who would even do that?”

“Let’s just say, you shouldn’t trust raisin cookies that look like chocolate chip cookies,” he shudders.

“I’m guessing you’ve been burned before?” Harry asks.

Louis pulls a face; he can still taste Louise’s unfortunate creations hours later. “Yes. Today, actually. _And_ , to add insult to injury, they were gluten-free as well.”

“I like raisin cookies,” Beau says.

“You can eat all of mine, then,” he tells her, and her eyes light up.

“You have raisin cookies?”

“Of course, not. They’re vile.”

“Lou,” Harry laughs, “don’t tease.”

Louis sighs loudly, half to show his (fake) exasperation, and half to rid himself of the swoop in his belly that had shown up when Harry referred to him by a nickname. Which was ridiculous, really, because all Harry even did was drop the last two letters, an action that absolutely should not give him butterflies.

His stomach is a traitor, and shall be dealt with accordingly.

Later, though. Because right now he’s got Harry’s arm pressed against his, and no amount of stern pep talks could rid the feeling caused by Harry’s close proximity.

Beau is asking another question, and he hopes it was aimed at Harry because he hasn’t been paying attention since Harry’s playful chastising, and he’d feel like an arse if he’s been ignoring her.

(Turns out he _had_ been ignoring her, but luckily for him, Beau found it funny rather than insulting, and Louis told himself that he wouldn’t stand that close to Harry again.)

(At least, not with someone else in the room.)

Louis could get used to this, he thinks. This easy domesticity he and Harry seem to have developed. The way that he sometimes feels as if he belongs, like he’s part of their little family. The familiarity of having an actual house to come home to rather than a lonely little flat. Yeah, Louis could definitely get used to this.

And then he remembers none of that is real, and everything comes crashing down.

* * *

The shift starts about a week before they’re due to leave for the wedding. It’s barely noticeable at first; Harry brushes off any weirdness as, well, a normal amount of weirdness. He ignores the way his fingers tingle when he accidentally knocks hands with Louis whilst fetching a mug in the morning, pretends like he doesn’t notice the way his mouth goes dry when Louis stretches so far that the hem of his t-shirt rides up. He absolutely does _not_ acknowledge the dream he had the other day.

Okay, maybe it’s a little bit noticeable. But that still doesn’t prepare Harry for the events that occur on an otherwise unremarkable Wednesday morning. He and Louis are indulging in their morning routine: Harry nursing a cup of black coffee while Louis enjoys his cuppa (milk only, absolutely no sugar _thank you very much, Harold_.)

“I’m going to go wake Beau up,” Harry says once he finishes. “Will you be here when I get back?”

Louis checks his watch and smiles apologetically. “’Fraid not, love, I’ve gotta run.”

“Okay,” Harry replies easily. He places the mug in the dishwasher and moves into Louis’ space - almost as if he doesn’t realise he’s doing it - and pecks him on the lips. “Have a good day,” he says, and runs a hand down Louis’ arm before leaving the room to rouse his daughter from sleep.

Louis stands frozen in the middle of the sunny kitchen, attempting to process what just happened, and ultimately failing because Harry just kissed him.

Harry just kissed him - walked up and pressed his plush, red, lickable lips to Louis’ like it was nothing. And maybe it was. Nothing, that is. Only it’s very much not like nothing to Louis, and now he’s got a million thoughts racing through his brain, and all of them contain the same theme.

_Harry kissed me Harry kissed me I kissed Harry We kissed Harry and I kissed Someone kissed me and it was Harry_.

And then, very small, very quiet, in the very back of his mind, _What now_?

 

Harry is halfway to Beau’s room when he realises what he’s done. _Oh God_ , he thinks, _I just kissed Louis. Oh bloody hell_ , he thinks, _I kissed Louis without his permission_. _Fuck_ , he thinks, _I want to do it again. I want to kiss him_  again.

“Fuck,” he says, this time out loud, causing Beau to gasp loudly from her loft bed.

“Daddy! That’s a pound in the swear jar,” she chastises, sounding much too bossy for the early hour. Not that he’d expect anything else from her.

“Sorry, Bo-bear,” he apologises, and he is, really. He doesn’t swear often, and he tries his best not to do it in front of her, but these are trying times. Extenuating circumstances, and all that.

“It’s okay, Daddy,” she reassures him. “I’m not cross.” She puts her hands on her hips. “But you still have to put a pound in the jar.”

Harry chuckles quietly at her tenacity, and pulls his wallet from the back pocket of his trousers. “How about five quid? Will that cover it?”

Beau narrows her eyes. “You can’t pay in advance.”

Harry throws up his hands to show his innocence. “I’m not, I promise.”

“Okay,” she says, not sounding convinced.

Harry hands her the note, and she takes it from him. “This goes in the jar.”

“I know.”

“You can’t get it back.”

“I know,” he says again, laughing. “You don’t have to talk me out of it. Besides, think of it as a donation to our adventure fund.”

“But it’s not,” she points out, “it’s because you said a bad word.”

“You’re right, and I shouldn’t have. Now,” he continues, and pats the end of the bed twice, “it’s time for school, young lady.”

Beau wrinkles her nose. “I don’t like it when you call me that.”

Harry winces, because he really needs to start remembering that better. “Sorry, love,” he apologises, “but we really do need to get a move on, yeah?”

“Okay,” she giggles, “I’m getting up, I’m getting up.”

Harry spies one of Mr. Bear’s paws sticking out from underneath her quilt, and reaches for the stuffed animal, making it stand up and saying in a silly, posh voice. “Do come along, Miss Beau, the kitchen won’t be open for much longer.”

She giggles again and takes Mr. Bear back. “You know he doesn’t sound like that.”

“What does he sound like, then?”

“He doesn’t talk, Daddy, he’s just a stuffed bear.”

“Oh, silly me,” Harry replies with a smile, and watches as she subtly cuddles the toy and whispers something to it that’s too low for him to pick up. With one final pat on the quilt, Harry stands and goes to finish his own morning routine before it’s time to leave.

* * *

True to his word, Louis is gone by the time Harry and Beau enter the kitchen.

She hops up onto a barstool, resting her elbows on the table, and pouting the way she does when she doesn’t want Harry to know how much she wants something. “Can I have pancakes?”

“No time for pancakes today,” Harry says - and he’s sorry about it too, because pancakes sound really good right now. “We’ve got to rush or we’ll be late.”

She sighs in disappointment, but it’s quickly swallowed up by a giggle as Harry tickles her sides. “Stop it!” she squeals.

He relents, and goes to fetch a box of cereal. The options are Rice Krispies (courtesy of Louis), Coco Pops (Also courtesy of Louis), and Harry’s favourite bran flakes (which Louis will not touch with a 10-foot pole). He knows Beau won’t eat the last one, and the Coco Pops are much too sweet to eat this early in the morning, so he selects the Rice Krispies and moves on to the fridge to get some milk.

“Vanilla or plain?” he asks, referring to the two flavours of almond milk inside.

“Vanilla!” Beau replies excitedly - it’s the only one with sugar, after all - and Harry takes out the carton, setting both that and the box of cereal down to fetch a bowl next. Her favourite pink bowl is dirty, but her second favourite (purple-striped) isn’t, so he prepares the cereal in there as it occurs to him that his daughter is perfectly capable of doing this on her own.

“Hey,” he says then, “why am I the one making your cereal?”

She shrugs. “You started doing it so I thought it was okay.”

Harry shakes his head at his little menace of a daughter - he means that in the very best way - and starts on his own breakfast preparation. He’d been secretly wanting pancakes as well, actually, but he’d started making the porridge before Beau had brought them up, and he doesn’t want to waste food.

(Never mind the fact that he ends up doing just that, as his stomach is still twisted up in knots after the kiss.)

* * *

Louis’ just stepped out of the shower when the bathroom door swings open. He nearly rips the rack from the wall in his haste to grab a towel, and he wraps it around his waist as fast as he can.

“Oh, shit!” Harry swears, “I’m sorry, I didn’t— I didn’t realise you were in here.” His face flushes red, but he doesn’t back away or close the door, just stares at Louis until Louis clears his throat.

“Can I help you?” he asks, and Harry shakes his head, takes a step back, and then nods.

“I need my glasses,” Harry says, and then steps onto the bathmat only to make a noise somewhere between a squawk and a squeal. Louis just stares as he hops on one foot, still making the loud noises noises and looking extremely indigent.

“My sock got wet,” Harry cries, “you got my sock wet.”

“Me? How did I get your sock wet?”

“You made the bathmat wet, and now my sock is wet.”

Louis blinks twice. “That’s what it’s for.”

“What?”

“The bathmat. It’s meant to get wet.”

“Not that wet.”

“What do you mean ‘not that wet’?”

“I mean, I’m mostly dry by the time I get out of the shower, and I just… I figured you would be too.”

“How the fuck do you manage that?” Louis asks. “Please, enlighten me.”

“I dry myself in the shower,” Harry replies, like that’s normal and not completely weird.

“What, you just take a towel in there with you?”

“I hang it over the door.”

“Oh,” Louis scoffs, “you hang it over the door. Of course.”

“Is that not what you did?”

“No, that’s not what I— Harry, you just saw me put a towel on.”

“Oh. Right.” Harry continues to stand there awkwardly, inches from Louis, and close enough for Louis to tell that he’s breathing faster.

Suddenly, Louis wishes he was wearing more than a towel, and that Harry’s pyjama bottoms didn’t hang so low. And that Harry would just leave already so he could get dressed and hide in his room. “Weren’t you getting your glasses?” he reminds Harry, who looks at him owlishly like he forgot.

“Yeah. Yeah, I was.” Harry still looks embarrassed. It’s endearing, but Louis’ not going to let him get away with it.

“That wouldn’t have happened if you’d knocked,” he points out.

“It’s my house, I’m not used to knocking.”

“Well, that’s not my problem, is it?” Louis crosses his arms, and watches as Harry swallows harshly. The shift in his stance causes the towel to slip down his hips, and he can feel that it’s barely staying on, yet he makes no move to fix it. Before, he’d been afraid that it would drop, and now…

He just might not care.

Harry’s eyes keep dropping down like he can’t help it, and Louis has to fight back a smirk. He finds that he likes Harry like this. Flustered. Vulnerable. Like Louis’ got the upper hand here. Like he’s not the one seconds away from baring it all in front of Harry. Like he’s in control.

It’s a pleasant, heady, feeling.

He turns around to face the mirror, and if he moves his hips a little more than normal in his quest to grab his deodorant, he can’t really be blamed. Nor can he be blamed for the strangled noise Harry makes when he does so. Well, not blamed much. He’s only having a bit of fun, really. He’s not actually trying to tease Harry.

Much.

Harry says something then, something Louis doesn’t quite pick up, but he still says “Yes,” because it sounded like a question; there’s 50/50 chance that was the right answer. Still, he’s so surprised when Harry says, “You have a point,” that he turns around so quickly his towel nearly falls off his waist.

“Of course I have a point, Harold,” he says, deciding now to just run with it. “I always have a point. I have excellent points. People should listen to my points all the time, that’s how excellent they are. Also, what are you talking about?”

“I should have knocked first.”

Oh. Right. That. Louis plants his hands on his hips and works to look indigent. “Did you seriously need my help to come to that conclusion?”

“Maybe?”

He shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous sometimes, did you know that?”

“You’ve mentioned it once or twice,” Harry answers. “Possibly somewhere in the double digits, actually.”

“Well, I clearly haven’t said it enough,” Louis snorts.

“Clearly.” Harry looks amused, and Louis remembers he’s still only wearing a towel. The air in the bathroom is cold enough that he’s got goosebumps now, and he’s suddenly very self-conscious about how much of his skin is exposed to Harry at the moment.

“So,” he says, “are you going to let me finish getting ready or not?”

“Oh. Right, yeah. Sorry,” Harry apologises. “I’ll just… leave you to it, then. Will you be done soon?”

Louis nods. “Yeah, I’ll let you know when I’m out.”

“Good, sounds good,” Harry says, and Louis doesn’t miss the way his eyes once again flick down to the towel wrapped around his waist. He resists the urge to roll his eyes and points to the doorway.

“Out with you, then,” he says, and Harry goes, turning to grab his glasses like an afterthought, then leaves so quickly he nearly brains himself on the edge of the door. “You know,” Louis snorts after, “it would be easier if you actually faced the direction you were trying to go.”

Harry goes crimson, but he turns and shuts the door behind himself. Louis sits down on the toilet seat, all the tension gone from his body without Harry in the room. He feels simultaneously exhausted and energized, and doesn’t have time for either emotion. Pushing aside all thoughts of this event, Louis starts the rest of his post-shower routine, and refuses to imagine how hard it’s going to be to look Harry in the eye once he’s done.

He finally lets the towel fall, exposing his still-flaccid dick, and realises the encounter could have gone so much worse, really. Small miracles, he supposes.

(Almost immediately after that, he pictures Harry returning to the room to find him fully naked this time, and he’s no longer soft.)

(He blames Harry.)

* * *

Somehow, Louis manages Harry into letting him prepare dinner tonight, two days after his conversation with Fizzy, and it didn’t go terribly, if he does say so himself. Even if the potatoes had been a bit runny and the chicken a little overdone. All that mattered was that Harry - and Beau, obviously - liked it.

So he considers it a success.

Despite Louis’ protests to the contrary, Harry’d insisted he should be the one to clean up, so while he and Beau slave away over the kitchen sink (well, dishwasher), Louis retreats into the living room with some biscuits.

He settles into the sofa, kicking his feet up on the coffee table, and letting out a deep sigh as he sinks into the cushions. Cliff comes trotting over, looking interested.

Plucking the packet of biscuits from the cushion beside him, Louis shoos away his curious dog. “These aren’t for you,” he says. “Go bother Miss Kitty.”

He goes to open the packet, tearing it a bit too aggressively, and biscuits go flying everywhere. Cliff looks like he just won the lottery.

“Dammit,” he swears, louder than intended.

“That’s a pound in the jar,” Harry says from the doorway, and Louis jumps.

“I thought you were putting Beau to bed,” he says, and then “ _Shit_ ,” when he looks down at his mess again.

“That’s another one.”

Louis looks at him shrewdly. “Yeah, I’m not doing that.”

Harry laughs, and drops the subject as he moves forward to help Louis clean up his biscuit mess - aided by Clifford, of course. He’d never allow it if they’d been chocolate, obviously, so Clifford had lucked out this time. Louis takes the mess to the dispose of it in the bin - and mourn the loss of a perfectly good snack - and when he returns, Harry’s stolen his spot on the sofa. He chooses not to react, though, half because the match is on and he doesn’t fancy having a row when he could be watching that, and half because he’s too focused on holding his breath, waiting for Harry’s full reaction to the events of today.

“Thank you for dinner,” Harry says then, and while it’s not quite the conversation Louis’d been expecting, he still lets it go straight to his head.

“Is this you saying I’m an amazing cook?”

“Slow down there,” Harry chuckles, “you’ve made one meal. I need more than that to judge properly.”

“Yeah? You’ll let me cook for you again?” Louis cringes at the way his voice has gone a bit breathless, but he forgets all about that when Harry beams.

“Of course, Lou.”

Louis shuts the telly off after that, and realises the music they’d had on earlier is still playing. Harry appears to notice as well. He stands and swivels his hips in Louis’ direction with a cheeky grin on his face.

“I love this song.”

Louis snorts. “You love every song.”

“Well, can you blame me?”

Louis stands next, stretches, and adjusts the beanie on his head, which is apparently amusing to Harry, because he giggles the moment Louis finishes.

“What?”

“Nothing… Just, when you wear that in the house, it makes you look like a hooligan.”

“Did you just call me a hooligan?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“How you react to being called a hooligan.” Harry grins.

Louis can’t help but return that grin, but he still attempts to feign seriousness when he says, “Well, I wouldn’t say I’m exactly happy about it.”

“Oh? Is there something you would prefer to be called?”

“Louis.”

“Your name? That’s no fun.”

“I never claimed to be fun.”

“For the record,” Harry whispers huskily, “I like hooligans.”

Having just barely avoided choking on his own spit, Louis somehow manages to fix his expression into something over-the-top and flirtatious. He raises a curious eyebrow. “I bet you say that to all the boys.”

“Nope,” Harry says, and Louis feels his stomach swoop dangerously, because he just might believe it.

Harry holds out a hand to Louis, who takes it, and allows himself to be pulled into Harry, and then swayed, and then dipped so far back that the tips of his hair brush the carpet. Harry pulls him back to standing, and suddenly their faces are far too close.

“Oops,” Harry says, and then, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Louis practically whimpers. Then clears his throat and tries again. “Hi. Come here often?”

Harry hums. “When I can get away.”

“Dance with many people?”

“Nope. Just you.”

Louis stops moving, but not really, because Harry’s still manoeuvring him, so all that happens is that he slumps forward until he’s leaning on Harry, and that just won’t do. It won’t do at all. So he recoils.

Harry must notice his sudden change in demeanour, because he’s frowning now. “Is something wrong?”

Louis shakes his head. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s just late,” he says. “I’ve got to be up early tomorrow. Suit shopping, remember?”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“‘course I am,” he snorts. “So, goodnight then, I suppose.”

Harry blinks and then backs off. “G’night, Lou,” he says. “I hope you sleep well.”

“Night, Haz,” Louis replies, despite the fact that he’s already said the sentiment once, and then hurries out of the room, resisting to the urge to look back at Harry, even though he can feel the other man’s eyes burning a hole through the thin cotton of his t-shirt. He won’t look. He _won’t_.

He does, and Harry’s looking right back, an unreadable expression on his face. Perfect, because that’s exactly how Louis feels as well. Good to know they’re on the same page, that he’s not the only one who’s confused and conflicted.

Or the only one who’s noticed the increased sexual tension.

Louis doesn’t break eye contact first, he refuses, and finally, Harry blinks, giving Louis an out, allowing him an escape, which he immediately takes.

This time he doesn’t look back.

* * *

It takes Louis hours to fall asleep, and when Harry gently shakes him awake the next morning, he groans loudly. “Go away old man; I need my beauty sleep.”

“I think you’re beautiful enough already,” Harry says honestly, and Louis blushes.

“Shut up. Flattery will get you nowhere,” he sniffs.

“I’ll buy you breakfast,” Harry sing-songs, and Louis cracks one eye open.

“From McDonald’s?”

Harry nods.

Louis considers this. “I can get whatever I want?”

Harry nods again, and Louis smirks, because Harry might regret that offer when he sees how much Louis can eat in the morning. “Okay,” he sighs. “But only because of the egg McMuffins.”

* * *

Three egg McMuffins, two hash browns, and one mediocre cup of milky coffee later, Louis’ leaning back in the front seat of Harry’s Range Rover, patting his stomach contentedly.

“How the hell can you eat so much?” Harry asks. “You’re so tiny.”

“I’m not tiny,” Louis snaps, “I’m compact. And hungry. And you told me I could get anything I wanted.”

“That’s true,” he laughs. “I don’t actually mind, you know that. I’m just impressed.”

“Has anyone ever told you how weird you are?”

“Yes. It’s mostly you, though.”

“Doesn’t make it any less true,” Louis sniffs. “Not everyone has the up-close-and-personal view I get from staying with you.”

“You complaining?”

“Of course not.”

In lieu of an answer, Harry unwraps the third McMuffin Louis wasn’t aware remained in the bag, and takes a large bite. Louis yelps.

“What are you doing?”

Harry chews, then swallows, watching Louis the entire time. He takes another bite, chews even slower this time, and smirks around the food when Louis makes a frustrated noise.

“Are you taking the piss? Why are you eating that? Don’t you know it’s bad for you?”

“Didn’t see you getting too worried about health when you ate two in a row,” Harry counters.

“Yes, but— You… You don’t eat that stuff. You eat… You’re a fucking vegan, Haz.”

“Am I? Well, that’s unfortunate.” He takes another large back as Louis fish mouths, and then narrows his eyes.

“How long have you been keeping this from me?’ he demands.

Harry’s face looks pained as he coughs, and Louis feels bad for making him choke like that, but _what_? And then,  _wait_.

“So this whole time, this entire bloody time you’ve been feeding me fucking _tofu_ —”

“Hey! I thought you liked the tofu!”

“First of all, I didn’t like it, I loved it, and second of all, _you_ lied to me.”

“I didn’t lie to you, you made an assumption. And you know what they say about assumptions,” Harry chides, sounding a bit too smug for Louis’ taste.

“What else are you keeping from me, then? Secret family? Secret lover?”

“Bloody hell, Lou, this isn’t a fucking soap opera. And no, no other secrets.”

“Are you sure?”

* * *

Louis starts to get restless about an hour into the trip. He attempts to deal with this by putting his feet on the dashboard - mostly to annoy Harry into bantering - and when that doesn’t work he escalates to fiddling with the radio. Harry frowns but doesn’t stop him, and Louis bangs his head back against the headrest and sighs loudly.

“I’m bored,” he complains.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m bored,” Louis repeats. “You should tell me a story.”

“I don’t know any stories.”

“That’s bullshit, you tell stories all the time.”

“Not on purpose.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Just tell me a bloody story, Harold.”

“Fine, I’ll tell you a story.”

“How do I know you won’t accidentally put me to sleep?”

“I guess I don’t. It’s not like you’re driving anyway, so fuck off,” he laughs.

“ _You_ fuck off.”

“That was clever, well done. And if you were worried about my stories putting you to sleep then why did you ask me to tell you one?”

“Because I make terrible decisions a lot.”

“I don’t think that counts as a terrible decision.”

Louis smirks. “Doesn’t it?”

“No.”

“Well, alright then. So are you gonna tell me a story or not?”

“Not.”

“Fuck you.”

Harry grins goofily, and then scrunches up his face like he’s concentrating. Louis hopes it’s on thinking for a story, but knowing Harry, it could be absolutely anything.

“Would you like to hear the story of how Beau and I ended up back in Holmes Chapel?”

It’s not exactly what Louis had in mind, but he still finds himself answering, “Sure.”

“Well,” Harry starts, “we travelled extensively for the first four years of her life, and then eventually settled down for longer periods of time so she could have something close to proper schooling. We still moved around a lot, though. I was… Restless? I guess? And constantly worried that if we stayed in one place for too long that someone would recognise me and, like, alert the media or something.”

“I like that you think you’re still relevant enough to garner media attention,” Louis snorts.

Harry shrugs. “I didn’t want to risk it. Not when Beau was involved. She was only a baby when we left, you know - practically a newborn. I feel guilty sometimes about the fact that my Mum’s watched so much of her only granddaughter’s life through a screen. I suppose that’s part of the reason I came home.”

“And the other part?”

“It was time for Beau to be somewhere more stable, and closer to family. It was time to go home.” Harry laughs. “When I first called my mum to let her know I was coming back, she thought I was dying. Apparently, she was convinced that only a tragedy could ever make me return to a ‘normal life’.”

“I hate to break it to you, lad, but you’re pretty much incapable of a ‘normal life.’”

“What makes you say that?”

“Just… well, you’re you, yeah? You’re too….Harry-like to do things the normal way. For fuck’s sake, you couldn’t even fall off the face of the planet without making it extra as hell.”

“Okay, that’s fair,” Harry says. “Though I do wish I’d stuck around long enough to catch people’s reactions; see what they were thinking, you know?”

“I can tell you exactly what they were thinking,” Louis replies. “They were thinking ‘What does millionaire popstar Harry Styles know about babies?’”

“A lot.” Harry sounds defensive now, like Louis’ stumbled upon a sore spot. “I know a lot about babies. Before I adopted Beau I had like, five godkids.”

“Holy shit, Haz,” Louis says, and then: “Wait, didn’t you adopt Beau when you were, what, 23?”

“I just told you that,” Harry says, slowly, like he’s confused.

“Why would so many people trust someone that young with their kids?”

Harry scoffs. “Because I’m good with them?”

“No one’s _that_ good with kids. C’mon,” Louis teases. “You must have a secret. Is it the dimples? Is that it? You use the dimples to hypnotize unsuspecting parents into giving you responsibility?”

“You’re weird.”

“I thought we established that you were the weird one.”

“We can both be weird.”

“Impossible. There can only be one.”

“One what?”

“Weird one.”

“You’re weird.”

“Harold.”

“Lewis.”

“ _Harold_.”

- _Take the next left and then make a slight right_ \- the navigation interrupts.

“A slight right? What the fuck is a slight right?”

“It means we’re supposed to go slightly to the right.”

“If you say so,” Louis says, and is quiet for all of two seconds before he whines, “I’m bo-o-o-red. Tell me another story.”

“Okay,” Harry says, and bites his lip like he’s thinking hard. “Okay, I’ve got one. So, my dog used to chase people on a bicycle, yeah? Well, he did it so much that I finally had to take his bike away.” He snorts like he’s trying to keep a laugh in. “Just kidding! I don’t have a dog.”

“I should have seen that coming. I really should have seen that coming.”

“But you didn’t,” Harry says smugly. “Because I’m a comedic genius.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I was gonna say.”

“Oh yeah? Your turn then. Tell me your best joke.”

“You don’t deserve my best jokes.”

“Fine, tell me your worst joke, then.”

Louis thinks for a moment, decides to stoop to Harry’s level of terrible, and asks, “Why can’t you hear a pterodactyl go to the toilets?”

“Why?”

“Because the ‘p’ is silent!” Louis howls, and then frowns when two seconds pass without Harry reacting. “Hey!” he cries indignantly. “Why aren’t you laughing?”

“Because it really wasn’t funny.”

“Screw you,” Louis huffs, “I’m hilarious.”

“You didn’t laugh at my joke either,” Harry points out.

“That’s because your joke was terrible.”

“Heeey.”

“It’s true.”

“It is not true.”

“It is indeed true. All of your jokes are terrible.” Harry swats at him half-heartedly, and Louis ducks out of the way. “And the puns…” he groans. “Dear God… The puns…”

“Are you saying you don’t appreciate a good pun?”

“Yes, exactly. That is exactly what I’m saying. Puns are terrible. Especially yours.”

“Harsh,” Harry laughs. “What have puns ever done to offend you?”

“Existed,” he says, and then after messing with the radio some more and determining all the stations to be shit, whines, “There’s nothing good on the radio. And I’m still bored.”

“I should have some CD’s around somewhere.”

“Oh my _God_ , you really are ancient.”

“Hasn’t anyone told you not to bite the hand of the person driving the car?”

“It’s ‘bite the hand that feeds you’.”

“That too.”

Louis huffs, then starts feeling around the floorboards for a CD, eyes going wide when his hand brushes against the plastic of an extremely familiar album. “Why the hell do you have this?” Louis demands.

Harry chances a quick glance to his left, not wanting to take his eyes off the road in front of him for too long. “Why do I have a CD? Are you going to call me old again?”

“I mean why do you have a _Status Single_ CD?”

“Well,” Harry says slowly, “I don’t know if you know this, but…”

“Don’t say it,” Louis warns.

“I know someone in the band.” He chuckles at the expression on Louis’ face.

“Oh, do you?”

Harry nods, and chuckles when Louis rolls his eyes. They continue the drive in silence until Louis huffs and says, “Just fucking put it on already.”

“Excuse me?”

“The bloody CD. Put it on.”

Harry shakes his head at Louis’ ridiculousness, but doesn’t say anything as he plucks the CD from Louis’ smaller hand and pops it into the player. Louis manages to press play before Harry has a chance, and if someone had told Harry a month ago that he’d be singing along to _Tell Me No Lies_ with his daughter’s incredibly fit - and much younger - footie coach, he’d never have believed them.

Louis’ smiling now, and the sight makes Harry’s heart warm.

(And if he takes the long way there so they can listen to the entire album, well, no one else has to know.)

* * *

“I can’t believe you made me listen to that entire thing,” Louis complains as he pushes open the car door.

“You told me to put it on!” Harry protests.

“I didn’t think you’d actually make me listen to the whole thing! Aren’t you people supposed to be embarrassed by your own music, or whatever?”

Harry snorts. “You people?”

“Yes, you people. Artists. Singers. _Boybanders_.”

“I must be an anomaly, because I actually like listening to our old music.”

Louis narrows his eyes. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“Every single song?”

“Yup.”

“Even the one about the pirates?”

“Yes, even that one.”

“You’ve got a terrible taste in music, did you know that? And what kind of boy band sings a song about pirates?”

“The pirates were a metaphor.”

“A metaphor for what?”

“I…” Harry falters. “I don’t actually know. That’s just what we were told to say when people asked.”

“And did they? Ask?”

He chuckles darkly. “So much.”

“So you hate that one, then?”

“Nope. I told you, I don’t hate any of our songs.”

“Well, I hate all of them.”

“Thank you for answering the question I didn’t ask.”

“You were going to.”

“I really wasn’t.”

“I bet you wanted to.”

“You caught me, Lou,” Harry chuckles. The light changes and he begins to step off the pavement. At the same time, a car whizzes past, and he stumbles back, jostling the people behind him.

“Watch it,” someone snaps, and Harry feels his face colour.

“Sorry, mate,” he stammers.

The other person—a portly man who looks to be in his mid-forties—mutters something he can’t quite catch but is sure isn’t polite.

So far, London isn’t welcoming him back with open arms, which is fine. Harry’s not the person he was when he lived here before, and for the first time in a long time, he realises just how much of a relief that is.

The two of them make it to the shop with no further incidents, and Harry’s suddenly thankful that his name still holds some weight - enough to guarantee privacy, and the knowledge that his visit won’t be broadcast publicly.

They’re shown to a back room where, after letting them know she’ll be nearby to help with anything they might need - the attendant leaves them alone with racks and racks of the loveliest suits Harry has seen in ages. His eye is drawn first to one that’s a bit shiny, purple with a paisley pattern; the fabric looks like it’d be slippery under his fingers, and he forgets Louis is there for a moment as he crosses the room to go investigate.

His assumption was correct, the fabric feels nice and cool, but it doesn’t quite feel like the one. Especially not when the one next to it is bloody loud - green and purple and glittery, and he must look particularly enamored or something because all of a sudden Louis is behind him, laughing in a way that starts out as a squawk and transforms to his usual bleat. “What the fuck are all there?” he asks, and Harry wrinkles his nose, feeling offended on behalf of his potential future purchases.

“They’re suits, Lou.”

“I know that, Harold. But why do they look like… that?”

“Oi,” Harry protests, “I happen to like the fact that they look like that.”

“Oi,” Louis parrots back, snickering as he runs his fingers over the loud jackets. His hand stills when he gets to one that’s blue and floral, and he can’t seem to stop the snort that escapes. “Fairly sure me Nan had a chair that looked just like this in her sitting room when I was a kid.”

“Bully for your Nan,” Harry grumbles.

Louis continues his verbal attack on Harry’s clothes undeterred. “Half of these could be little old lady sofas.” He laughs, as he pinches the trouser leg of a yellow one adorned with what looks like houseplants. “Who knows? Maybe they were in a past life.”

Harry scowls. “Are you quite finished?”

“Nope,” Louis replies, lips popping harshly on the p. “Also, I refuse to believe you could find anyplace sensible to re-wear any of these.”

“Christenings,” Harry offers, “Weddings, other..other places.. there are lots of other places.”

“Christenings? Are you saying you’d attend a bloody Christening wearing—” he plunges a hand into the mess of fabric and pulls out a pair of gold glittery trousers, “—these?”

“Well…”

“Oh my God, you would, wouldn’t you?”

“It’s a nice suit. I like that suit. I like all my suits, and you aren’t being very nice.”

Louis seems to realise he’s going a bit too far, because he looks mollified now. “Sorry. I’ll lay off.”

“Thank you.”

“They’re growing on me, if I’m honest,” Louis says, and Harry can see the way he’s staring hard at a black and red Harlequin looking outfit, already paired with a sheer blouse underneath that seems to cause Louis much amusement. “Can I see you in this? Like, will you try it on?”

“What is this, dress up?”

“Maybe,” Louis says. “Mostly I want to see how you look in that,” he points to the black and red one, “and…” he continues rummages through the rack until he stops and pulls out something pink and silky with a dragon wrapped around the pant leg—one of Harry’s favourites, something he’s had his eye ever since they entered the building. “This.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay, I’ll do it. Wait, like, right now? You want me to like…model this for you or whatever?”

“You’re making it sound like some sort of perverted fetish,” Louis says, wrinkling his nose. “’m just curious, is all. Never seen a bloke wear anything like this before.”

Harry decides to take that as confirmation that Louis somehow missed seeing him on the telly when he was young, and it cheers him up significantly. He feels Louis’ eyes on him as he unbuttons his jeans. “What?”

“Are you just going to drop trou right here?”

“Where else am I supposed to do it? Just look away if it’s that terrible.”

He doesn’t catch the words Louis mumbles under his breath, choosing inside to focus on peeling off his black skinny jeans. (Gemma likes to tease him about that fact that, at 31, he’s still squeezing himself into the tight denim, but Harry figures that he’s still got the legs for them, so why not take advantage.)

(He also finds out that Gemma does not like to have this pointed out to her, nor does she like Harry asking why she stopped wearing them, if it was her age that changed her.)

His initial impression was correct, while he doesn’t hate the cirque du soleil vibe, it’s much too flashy for a wedding - he doesn’t want to outshine the grooms, after all - but he still checks himself in the mirror, taking a moment to adjust the tie at the collar.

“Nice floppy bow tie,” Louis quips.

Harry rolls his eyes skyward because he can see exactly where this conversation is about to go, even if Louis doesn’t. “It’s called a pussybow,” Harry informs him, and Louis makes a noise somewhere because a cough and a snort, eyes bugging out as he momentarily chokes on the action.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re excused,” Harry replies primly.

“Did you really just say pussy in the middle of Gucci? Really?”

“No, of course not. I said pussybow. That’s what this is - like the bow a kitten wears around its neck, yeah?”

“So why not just call it a kitten bow? Or even a bloody pussycat bow? Why pussy?”

“To offend you personally, Louis,” Harry snorts, and returns his attention back to his reflection, finally deciding not to pick the one he has on, and changing quickly into the pink silk that Louis’ had picked out.

While he tests out that one - and attempts to subtly check how his arse looks in the flared bottoms - Louis thumbs through the hangers and pulls out a white floral suit. “I don’t exactly think this is my style.”

Harry cocks his head. “I think you could make it work. Why don’t you try it on?”

Louis flushes. “I can’t exactly afford anything in here, Harold.”

“I could get it for you, no problem,” Harry tells him, and he can instantly tell that was the wrong thing to say, judging from the way Louis’ face changes.

“I can’t let you do that. I can buy me own suits, thanks.”

“Okay, I just thought… Since you’re my guest…”

“Doesn’t mean you have to dress me.”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘course. Sorry. I really don’t mind, though.”

Louis’ reaction remains the same as he says firmly, “Well, I mind. So no.”

“Louis.”

“I can buy my own suit, okay? I mean obviously not _here_. But not all of us can afford to show up at weddings in bloody Gucci, now can we?”

“No,” Harry says, “I suppose not.”

“And there’s nothing wrong with that,” Louis continues.

“You’re right. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pushed it.”

“It’s okay,” he replies, and there’s an awkward pause as Louis searches for another suit for Harry to try on - it appears that just because he’s not getting anything doesn’t mean he plans to miss out on seeing Harry in every single one of these things. Especially the really out there ones. It’s kind of nice, Harry thinks, even if he does feel a bit like a Ken doll. Louis appears to be having fun as well, and even though Harry has pretty much decided he’ll find his outfit at another time in a different shop, he still lets Louis continue to dress him until every suit on the rack has been tested. The final one is pink velvet, with a cropped jacket and gorgeous beading; Harry has never felt more like a prince than in at this moment, and if he wasn’t absolutely certain it’s inappropriate to wear to the wedding, he’d buy it right now. The way Louis can’t seem to stop staring at him in it doesn’t hurt either, but he resists the temptation; he doesn’t need this, has no real reason to buy it.

In the end, he does, ignoring Louis’ knowing smirk as his purchase is wrapped up and prepared to be transported to his house - a lucky break, as Harry doesn’t exactly fancy carrying it around as their day continues. He still doesn’t know where he’ll wear it, or even if he’ll over get a chance to, but that’s the point sometimes, isn’t it? To go for it, to do the thing that seems too out there, too risky, too mad to actually pursue. Purchase. Purchase, not pursue.

He hopes the reward outweighs the risk in the end, and as Louis’ hand accidentally bumps against his, he becomes painfully aware that he’s no longer talking about the suits.

* * *

After his outburst in the shop, Louis allows Harry to take him out to dinner. He doesn’t even ask where, too tired to fight against any overly posh places Harry might try to drag him to. Which ends up being Soho House; Louis’ never heard of it before, but, then again, it’s not like he spends enough time in London to keep up with all the places to get food. It’s as posh as he expected, and the inside smacks of inclusivity and secrets. Louis just wants dinner.

He lets Harry order for him, mostly because he doesn’t know what half the stuff even is - which he refuses to admit to Harry, but suspects he’s already figured it out, and starts digging into his food almost immediately after the waiter is gone, and when he finally looks up from his plate he catches Harry watching him with what can only be described as amusement.”

“Hungry?” he asks, eyes crinkling adorably at the corners as he smiles.

“Starving, actually.”

“You could have eaten something in the store,” Harry points out, and Louis wrinkles his nose.

“Everything smelled weird.”

“Well, I thought it was delicious.”

“Makes sense, as they probably brought all of your favourites.”

“...maybe.”

“See? I was right. You and your posh snacks, and your posh restaurants.”

“Oi, careful who you’re calling posh. And I don’t come here because it’s… whatever; I come here - well, used to come here - because it’s private. Started coming here a few years after we got really big. It was nice because they have a strict ‘no photos’ policy. I mean, obviously, not everyone adheres to it all the time, but it’s infinitely more private than some random cafe on the corner.”

“I guess it’s not exactly a ‘strict’ policy then,” Louis quips.

“No,” Harry laughs. “No, I suppose it isn’t. We also avoided people by playing a lot of golf, Niall and I. Spent a lot of time at those clubs when I was younger.”

“Bit weird, innit? Couple of teenagers taking up an old man sport like that.”

“Ah,” Harry says, “but that’s exactly why we did it. Because when you’re famous, you can’t exactly pop round to Starbucks to see your mates. We had to get creative. It was Niall’s idea really, I just went along for a laugh and ended up loving it. And the privacy. That was brilliant as well.”

“Bloody hell, that’s depressing.”

“Is it? Hmm, I mean, I suppose? I’ve never looked at it that way, though.”

“Of course you didn’t, Mr Perpetual Sunshine.”

“I’m not a— I just mean, sometimes it was better than the alternative. Getting stalked. Never being able to relax fully because I always had to be ready for someone to snap a picture. And I always had to be,” he mutters bitterly, “because they always did.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you.”

“You don’t have to apologise, ‘s not your fault.”

“I know it isn’t,” Louis says, softer now. “Doesn’t mean any of it was okay, or that I’m not sorry you went through it.”

Harry clears his throat then, clearly done with the topic. “Are you finished eating?”

Louis is, but there’s still a fair amount of food on Harry’s plate. However, something tells him it’s really not the right time to mention that, so he just nods his reply, and Harry holds out his hand to flag down a waiter for the check. Which he won’t even let Louis see, the wanker. Not that Louis could afford the meal, he’s half-afraid to even look at the numbers considering his menu hadn’t even come with the prices on it, but he feels guilty every time Harry spends money on him, like he’s taking advantage. Like he’s some sort of… sugar baby. Only without the sex. Or the extravagant gifts.

Okay, maybe not a sugar baby, but the guilt is still there. He suspects it won’t go away for a while, not as long as he’s still depending on Harry’s generosity and hospitality, so he might as well get used to it, he reasons.

(Which doesn’t mean he’s okay with finding out that Harry is the one who bought their plane tickets, but he’s getting there. Slowly.)

* * *

“Why are you sitting on your suitcase?”

Louis looks up from his bed and scowls. “Because it won’t close, _obviously_. Christ, Harold, it’s not that that difficult of a deduction.”

“If it won’t close, why don’t you just bring a second bag?”

“Because not all of us can afford those extra fees.”

“Oh, right. Yeah.”

“Yup.”

Harry’s so mesmerised by the sight of Louis bouncing on top of the case that he almost forgets to say, “You can pack some of it in my bag, if you want…”

“Nope, I’ve - _unh_ \- got - _unh_ \- it.” With a final grunt, Louis is able to finally pull the zip around. (Just barely, really, but Harry knows better than to point that out.)

“See? I got it to work,” Louis smirks, triumphant, and Harry rolls his eyes.

“Your methods are questionable.”

Louis lets an offended squawk. “How. Very. Dare. You,” he gasps. “How da-a-a-re you question my methods, Harold.”

“What’re you gonna do about it?” Harry challenges.

“Make you go to the wedding alone, obviously.”

“Okay.” With that, Harry turns and exits the room, chuckling to himself when he hears Louis curse and scramble after him.

“Wait!” he calls. “Wait! I was kidding!”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Honestly, I can never tell with you; your humour’s drier than the Sahara Desert.”

“Clever.”

“Thank you.”

“So, are you finally all packed?”

“Oi! What do you mean ‘ _finally_ ’?”

“Nothing. Just, I didn’t wait until the night before we’re meant to leave to pack, did I?”

“Listen, we’re not all as responsible as you, old man.”

“Wow, you’re really angling to get yourself uninvited, huh?”

“You wouldn’t uninvite me,” Louis informs him.

“Oh? And why’s that?”

“Do you really want to fend off drunken bridesmaids on your own?”

“First of all, there’s no bridesmaids, and second, I can handle drunken advances on my own, thanks. Also, I’m not into women, remember? But you’re only there as my friend, anyway, ‘s not like it’d keep anyone away.”

Louis winces at the reminder and turns his attention back to his suitcase, and once they’re both finally all ready, the three of them - Harry, Beau, and Louis - all pile into the Range Rover with Anne, suitcases loaded in the boot, to drop Beau off at school. The plan is for Anne to drive them to the airport after this, and after a round of hugs - and more than a few tears - they leave Beau and begin the journey to Manchester.

* * *

They fly economy class, because Harry figured he’s less likely to stand out there. Louis will admit he’s a bit disappointed; he’d hoped his first time on an aeroplane would be more… Well, not this.

“What do you think?” Harry had asked him before they left, spinning around slowly to show off his attempt at going incognito, at which Louis had scoffed and informed him that he would stick out like a sore thumb, and that he will most certainly be recognised.

When Harry had tried to defend himself, insisting that it’s similar to what he’d worn everytime he flew with Beau, Louis remembers snapping, “Of course everyone’s going to be looking at you, Harold! How could they not? How could they not, when you look like that?”

“When I look ridiculous, you mean,” Harry had replied.

“No… No, you don’t look ridiculous, you look— ”

Louis’ potentially embarrassing confession had been cut off by a sharp knock at the door, and Anne sticking her head in the room to let them know it was time to leave.

Now, hours later - after a bumpy takeoff that had Harry gripping Louis’ hand hard enough to hurt - they’re sat on the plane watching The Avengers and it’s a good thing he’s seen the film already (an embarrassing amount of times, if he’s honest) because it turns out Harry is one of those people who talks during films. Louis only puts up with it because they’re trapped on a plane together for the next 12 hours - really, that’s the only reason - and he thinks Harry’s all talked out until he turns to Louis and asks, “If you were an Avenger, who would you be?”

“Iron Man, obviously.” Louis rolls his eyes, because, really, that was an easy question.

Harry looks amused. “So you’re the genius billionaire playboy philanthropist?”

“Yes.”

“Eh, I don’t see it.”

“Well, no one asked you, did they?”

“You’re more of a Spiderman.”

“He isn’t even in the film.”

“Yeah, but he’s an Avenger, right?”

“That’s not the point— Ugh, nevermind. The point is: I’m Iron Man.”

“You. Are. Iron. Man,” Harry rasps in what Louis thinks is supposed to be an Ozzy Osbourne impression.

“There, now you’re getting it.”

“Who am I, then?”

“You’re the bystander that I have to swoop in at the last minute to save because you’re too busy staring at the alien ship to fucking run away.”

“But I want to be an Avenger.”

“Too bad.”

“Does that make me Pepper?”

Louis gasps. “Pepper would never intentionally put herself in danger like that, Harold, are you serious? You wish you could be Pepper.”

“Mate,” someone growls from the seat behind them, “people are trying to sleep.”

“Hear that? You’re disturbing passengers.”

“We’re both disturbing passengers,” Harry points out, and Louis rolls his eyes.

“That wouldn’t have happened if you’d just accepted the fact that I’m Iron Man.”

“I did, but you wouldn’t let me be the Pepper Potts to your Iron Man.”

_Oh_. “Is that… Is that something you want?” Louis asks, only to be saved by another loud _shush_. Harry shrugs at him like ‘what can you do?’ and turns his attention back to the film. Before long, he’s falling asleep with his head on Louis’ shoulder before the bloody thing is even halfway through, and once it’s actually over - and he’s moved Harry’s head to the other side - Louis finds himself bored with nothing to do.

“You’re a lucky guy,” he hears someone say then, the question making him whip his head up and look around for the speaker. For a moment he’s afraid someone has recognised Harry, and he wracks his brain for an excuse, any sort of denial. He almost considers just ignoring them, but he’s no longer wearing his headphones which would have given him a much better excuse.

“I said you’re a lucky guy,” the voice repeats, and Louis finally locates the source, a short, bleach-blonde woman sat across the aisle from the two of them. She’s smiling, but it doesn’t seem predatory, just genuinely… nice.

“What do you mean?” He doesn’t mean to sound so suspicious, but when you’re travelling with a famous person - no matter how long they’ve been out of the spotlight - it’s hard not to be suspicious of strangers.

“Your boyfriend is really hot.”

Louis isn’t one to be easily flustered, even by new people, but he manages to choke on his own spit anyway. “He’s— That’s—” He attempts to subtly wipe his mouth with the back of his hand and collect himself. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Oh, shit. I’m really sorry for assuming you’re…”

“No, no,” he says quickly, “I am; it’s not that. Just… Well, just not with him.”

“Oooh,” she says, and he recognises that face. He’s seen it on his sisters enough times, that look like they know something he doesn’t. It’s both weirdly comforting and familiarly disconcerting. “I’m Bebe, by the way,” she continues.

“Louis,” he replies. “I mean, I’m Louis.”

“Hi, Louis. So who’s that next to you?”

Louis doesn’t know how to answer, because he doesn’t want to risk exposing Harry; he’s running through every possible scenario, half-considers giving her a fake name when, luckily for Louis, Harry chooses that moment to wake up.

He blinks groggily. “What’d I miss?”

For some reason, this strikes Louis as hilarious, and Bebe’s giggles quickly join his own.

Harry frowns. “Are you two laughing at me? Wait—” he stares at Bebe. “I don’t know you.” His stare flicks to Louis, who picks up on his panic.

“It’s fine, love,” he reassures Harry, “she’s nice.”

“Aww, thanks, Lou,” Bebe beams just as the plane begins its final descent, and Harry takes his hand without prompting this time. Louis is glad the other man’s eyes are closed, because he’s gone a bit pink and he doesn’t want to have to explain it away.

Unfortunately, Bebe has not missed his flush, and she winks suggestively. He sticks up his middle finger and she replies by blowing him a kiss just as the pilot announces they’ve arrived safely in the city of Toronto.

Harry doesn’t let go of his hand.


	5. Chapter 5

Louis’ first thought when he steps through the exit is _holy shit it’s cold_. It’s so fucking cold, much colder than back in England, and definitely colder than the weather report had said on Harry’s phone. When he says as much, Harry informs him that the app failed to factor in the windchill, and Louis curses that damn app because every bit of him is cold. He swears his balls are trying to call back inside his body out of fear of getting frostbitten, and as much as he wants to relay that joke to Harry, he doesn’t. Because as close as they’ve been getting over these past several months, Louis doesn’t think they’re in a place where he can joke about his dick like that. Or draw attention to it in any way, because if Harry’s paying attention to his dick, then Louis’ aware that Harry’s aware that it’s _there_. And, that just… It just can’t happen. He knows it makes no sense, but he still keeps his mouth shut.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Harry whines, “I think the cold chased my balls back inside.”

Well, that happened.

“Bloody hell, H,” Louis snorts, “TMI.”

“Oh, please, like you weren’t dying to make that joke,” Harry retorts, and Louis widens his eyes and opens his mouth in a perfect ‘o’ while shaking his head.

“Of course not. What kind of boy do you take me for?”

“The kind who can’t resist a good dick joke, obviously. And don’t give me that innocent shit, because I know you better than that.”

He keeps his mouth shut after that, half because Harry’s right, and half because all he can think about right now is Harry’s dick. And the cold. Harry’s dick and the cold. Maybe if he focuses on the cold a bit more he’ll forget about… Okay, nope, nope, that thought isn’t going away. He needs a better distraction, which luckily comes in the form of a car rolling up to them and rolling the window down.

Even without hearing Harry’s happy cry of “Nialler!”, Louis recognises the man in the driver’s seat instantly.

Logically, Louis knows who Harry’s friends are, but there’s knowing that he’s going to the wedding of a celebrity, and there’s actually meeting that celebrity in the flesh. And nothing really prepared him for the sight of Niall Horan sitting behind the wheel of a shitty Honda grinning stupidly in Louis’ direction.

“Hiya,” he says, “I’m Niall.”

Louis blinks. “I know who you are.”

“Right, H must have told you all about me, seeing as I’m his very best mate and all.”

“Um,” Louis says, because he can’t tell if Niall is fucking with him or not. “No, it’s because your face has been plastered on my oldest sister’s wall for most of my life.” He winces as soon as the sentence is out of his mouth, because holy _shit_ , that was so creepy.

Niall, however, doesn’t seem weirded out in the slightest. He seems to find it hilarious even, and his laughter is so infectious that both he and Harry find themselves joining in, though he’s not sure Harry, who’s only just made it to Louis’ side, knows what’s actually going on. His suspicion is confirmed when Harry asks, “What are we laughing about?” which sends both Louis and Niall into a fresh round of giggles, this time at Harry’s expense. Harry catches on to that fairly quickly and pretends to growl as he pokes Louis in the side sharply.

“You’re my guest,” he pouts, “and that’s my best friend; you two can’t gang up on me like that.”

“Says who?”

“Says me, obviously.”

“Well I say you’re wrong, and I’m always right. So there.” Louis drives his point home by pulling a face. Niall laughs instantly, and he can’t quite make out Harry’s expression with his eyes crossed, but he hopes it’s something resembling amusement. He holds the face until his cheeks hurt, and when he relaxes, Harry isn’t looking in his direction anymore. In fact, no one is, because everyone’s too busy watching Liam Payne walk towards their car.

Even Louis has to admit he’s affected, mesmerised by the way the man moves.

He also flinches along with everyone else in the general vicinity when Niall yells out his name.

“You just saw me two hours ago!” Liam protests, but it’s obvious that despite his grumbles, he really doesn’t mind the enthusiastic greeting.

“I know,” Niall says happily, “but I’m getting married! I’m excited! This is exciting stuff, Payno.”

“So you’ve said.”

“Is that how he expresses excitement?” Louis whispers to Harry, and Harry shrugs.

“It’s a thing; I guess I’m too used to it to find it odd.”

“Is that going to happen to me? Am I going to get tackled?”

Harry gives him a strange look. “Why, do you want to be? I mean, I can ask him… Is it, like, a thing? Is that a thing you want?”

Louis blinks. “I really hope you’re not implying that I’ve got a _kink_.”

“Um…”

“Oh my god.”

“I wasn’t,” Harry says, but it comes out hesitant. In his heart of hearts, Louis knows that’s not what Harry’d been implying, that it was just another case of him rambling without thinking, of letting his eagerness to please take control.

He clears his throat, ready to change the subject, because Harry’s eagerness to please and the word “kink” absolutely _cannot_ coexist in his head right now.

And it has nothing to do with Harry in the slightest.

_Obviously_.

* * *

Harry learns two things on the journey from the airport to the hotel where the wedding will be held. The first is that Niall lied when he said he knew how to get there, and the second is that Louis drools in his sleep. Nine years of parenthood have made Harry immune to most types of bodily fluids, drool being the least innocuous, so he doesn’t feel the need to wake Louis up. Plus, he figures he can use this later when Louis’ trying to get under his skin. So he lets Louis sleep. And resists the urge to follow, because it’s bad enough that Louis is warm and cuddly next to him, but letting his guard down enough to sleep on Louis is too much for Harry. He forces his eyes to stay open, and somehow manages to keep them that way until they arrive and Niall’s parking the car.

“Louis,” he says once the cars stopped, “Lou, you gotta get up. We’re here.”

Louis mumbles something unintelligible, and Harry shakes his shoulder. “Lou,” he says louder. “C’mon, Lou, I don’t want to leave you out here.”

“Jus’ leave me here to die,” Louis whines, and Harry rolls his eyes and pinches him hard.

“Up.”

“Fucking _hell_ ,” Louis squawks loudly. “That fucking hurt!”

“Good, it was supposed to.”

“No abusing my wedding guests,” Niall says, and Louis looks smug.

“Wedding’s not for two more days,” Harry replies, “so he’s fair game until then.”

That gets Louis to wake up fully and scramble out of the vehicle, much to Harry’s amusement.

They follow Niall inside where he gives them a tour of the building, starting with the location where the wedding and reception will be held, and ending in a long hallway containing the rooms of the other weddings guests and members of the party. Harry is ready to pass out, honestly, so he’s ready for Niall to show him to his room already.

“And this…” Niall throws his arm out dramatically, “is where you two will be sleeping.”

Harry blinks once, twice, three times, because surely this is a joke, it has to be. “Where’s Louis supposed to sleep?”

Niall looks at him like he’s a bit daft. “Here? This is his room too, obviously.”

“There’s only one bed,” Harry says, and his voice is doing nothing to disprove Niall’s theory on his daftness.

“And? Why is that a problem? Does he snore or summat?”

Harry doesn’t address the last question, because he doesn’t actually know the answer. Because he’s never shared a bed with Louis before. Because, despite what Niall seems to believe, they aren’t actually together. “We need more than one bed. Preferably two, but I’m not picky.”

“Are you joking?”

Harry shakes his head.

“H,” Niall sighs, “you told me you were bringing a date; I assumed you’d only need one bed.”

“No, you told me to bring a date. I didn’t bring a date. I brought a…” Harry doesn’t know what Louis is, actually. He’s definitely not a date, but he’s definitely not just a friend, either. “I brought a Louis.”

“Did someone say my name?” Louis says from behind him.

Harry jumps. “Stop sneaking up on me like that. Fucking hell, you’re like a bloody cat.”

“It’s not my fault you’re not aware enough of your surroundings; surprising you isn’t even that entertaining because I always know I won’t get caught.”

“How very Slytherin of you,” Harry says drily.

“What the fuck does that even mean, Hazza?”

Harry resists the urge to stick his tongue out, and instead catches Niall’s eye, who mouths, “Hazza?”

Harry just shrugs, resigned to his fate, and pushes past the two men to claim the right side of the bed before Louis gets a chance to interfere. He may have to share, but he’ll be damned if he has to give up his preferred sleeping spot, thank you very much.

The last thing he hears before falling asleep is Niall attempting to lecture him on how giving in to the urge to nap is _not_ the proper cure for jet lag, but he just mumbles something incoherent and attempts to turn Niall’s voice off by poking him in the face.

It’s doesn’t work, of course, but luckily for Harry, he passes out before hearing much more.

* * *

Louis is considering going back to their room to see if Harry is still napping, when he looks up to see the man in question enter the pool area and feels his eyes go wide. Because in front of him is Harry, wearing possibly the shortest swimming trunks one can wear without going full Speedo. They’re an obnoxious shade of yellow, and when Harry steps forward, they ride up just enough to reveal…

“Is that a tiger’s head?”

Harry glances down. “Oh, that? Yeah, it is. You like it?”

_I_ like what’s underneath it, Louis thinks. “Yeah, mate. Looks sick.”

“Thanks.” It looks like he’s preening, and Louis has to work not to roll his eyes.

“How many of those bloody things do you have anyway?” he asks, and Harry’s brow furrows as he seems to think about it.

“Probably somewhere around… 65? I think? Well, some of them are covered, though, so I guess it depends if you count those or not.”

“Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Count them.”

“Oh. Well, I guess so.”

“I don’t know how you do it. I could never.”

“Get 65 tattoos?”

“Get _any_ tattoos.”

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” Harry says. “And who knows, you just might find you like them.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Well, if you ever get the urge to get one, just let me know and we can go together.”

Louis sniffs. “What makes you think I’d even want you to go with me?”

Harry’s face falls for half a second until he seems to realise Louis is joking. (He should really know this by now; Louis’ hardly ever truly mean to him anymore.) (Mostly.)

“Maybe I’ll make you go by yourself then,” he shoots back, and Louis sticks out his tongue childishly, making Harry laugh - a noise that’s quickly becoming one of Louis’s favourites. Which is mad, because it’s not even a particularly attractive laugh. Before he can let those thoughts spiral too much, his attention is caught by the sound of Harry clearing his throat. When Louis turns his head, Harry’s pulled down one side of his swim shorts, scratching there with a furrowed brow.

“There must be too much chlorine in the pool,” he mutters, and Louis is trying his hardest not to stare, he really is - enough of Harry’s skin has been revealed to him today, thank you very much - but his eyes are drawn to the six letters now visible below Harry’s hip.

“Does that say Brasil?” he blurts out before he can stop himself.

“Hmm?” Harry glances down at his upper thigh. “Oh, yeah. Got that in Brasil.”

“Oh, did you?”

“Yeah.”

Louis rolls his eyes and smiles fondly. “The country must have left quite an impression.”

“Yeah,” Harry says again. “It did. I made some amazing memories there with the band. That’s also where we were living before moving back here.”

“‘We’, as in you and Beau?”

Harry nods. “We were only there for the summer, but it’s probably my favourite place we’ve lived; I’d love to go back.”

“What, Holmes Chapel isn’t your favourite? I’m offended on behalf of the entire village, Haz.”

“I didn’t know you were such a huge fan,” he quips.

“Of course not, ’m a Donny lad, but that doesn’t mean I can’t defend the place I live. It’s a nice place.”

“It is,” Harry agrees easily.

“Are any more tattoos hiding away, then?”

Harry glances down like he’s not familiar. “I don’t think so.”

“Can I see them? Like, all of them?” Louis holds his breath, because, yes, he’s aware of what he’s asking, even if his intentions are pure. (Mostly.)

“My tattoos?”

“Obviously.”

“Well, okay. Knock yourself out.”

And that’s how Louis spends the rest of their time at the pool; mapping out every bit of ink adorning Harry’s body, Harry lying on a deck chair as Louis sat next to him, tracing each one with his fingers. At one point, Louis’ middle finger accidentally brushes against one of Harry’s extra nipples - he’d spent much too long on the butterfly on Harry’s abdomen, it was bound to happen eventually - and the look on Harry’s face when that happens doesn’t leave his head for the rest of the day. That, and the image of him in those tiny yellow swimming trunks.

He’s not sure how he’s going to survive until Sunday night. That thought scares him less than it should.

* * *

Louis’ still embarrassingly hard when he returns to their shared room, and he’s sure that Harry’s noticed, but Harry’s hard too, and Louis hasn’t called him out on it, so maybe Harry’s just returning the favour.

“‘m gonna go and shower,” Harry mumbles, and if Louis didn’t know any better, he’d think Harry was avoiding eye contact on purpose. He can’t call him out on it though, not without addressing the elephant - well, elephants - in the room.

“Alright,” he answers, working to keep his voice from squeaking, because Harry and his yellow shorts and his hard cock are too close. “I’ll do that in the morning; I didn’t go in the pool anyway.”

“Or we could shower together.” Harry’s eyes go wide and he claps a hand over his mouth. “Oh my God,” he says, voice muffled, “I am so sorry.”

Louis chokes, and manages to disguise it as a laugh - at least, he hopes so. “No harm done, mate,” he says, putting extra emphasis on the last word. “I knew you were joking.”

He watches as Harry visibly swallows. “Yeah, just joking.” His eyes dart to the bathroom door. “Well, I’m going to go and shower now. Alone.”

“Have fun,” Louis says, trying his best to sound nonchalant. If Harry picks up on the strangled note in his voice, he doesn’t say anything, and finally he’s in the bathroom, behind a closed door, and Louis can breathe easily again.

He groans and leans his head back, letting it thunk against the wall. And then again, because he needs to erase the last hour from his brain if he has any hope of getting his boner to shrink before it’s time to go to dinner. His only consolation is that this didn’t happen right before bed, before he’d have to climb into the bed he’s meant to share with Harry. For the next four nights. Fuck.

If he didn’t think not sleeping there would rouse even more suspicions, he’d go somewhere else. (At least, that’s what he tells himself in order to shut up the voice in the back of his head, the one that sounds too much like Lottie.) But he doesn’t have anywhere else to go, he reasons, and while that’s not quite enough to shut the voice up, it’s close, and that’s all that matters.

After only five minutes of trying not to picture a soaped up Harry in the shower, Louis scribbles out a note to inform Harry that he’ll meet him downstairs in the lobby, and slips out the door before the temptation to take Harry up on the offer he never officially rescinded takes over.

Coming along might have been a mistake, actually, but he can’t find it in himself to regret it.

(At least, not yet.)

* * *

Harry’s slept in lots of beds with lots of people - even including some he was actually attracted to - but none of those previous times had been half as tortuous as sharing a bed with Louis last night. He’d attempted to make the whole thing easier on himself by facing away from the other man, but just knowing Louis was under the duvet, close enough to touch, kept him awake well into the night. And, to make matters worse, Louis apparently liked to be the big spoon. Harry could have gone his entire life without learning this, but now he’s got to live with the intimate knowledge of what it feels like to have Louis holding him from behind.

(It’s good. Like, really, really good.)

(Fuck.)

Neither of them had acknowledged the way they woke up tangled together beyond Louis muttering a quick apology before heading to the bathroom; Harry could have said something, he _should_ have said something, he’s _going_ to say something, but every question dies in his throat when Louis returns to the room wearing an oversized red jumper that Harry immediately recognises as his own.

“That’s my jumper,” he says, a bit dumbly, and Louis looks down like he wasn’t aware.

“Is it? Huh.”

“You’re wearing my jumper.” _And it looks amazing on you_ , Harry thinks, but doesn’t dare say out loud.

“I am.”

“Why?”

“It’s comfortable. And warm. And I wanted to. That okay?”

Harry nods, because of course it’s okay. It’s more than okay, even. Harry wants Louis to wear his clothes always; the sight invokes some sort of primal urge in him that finds Louis in his jumper extremely pleasing. It’s disconcerting, because of course he doesn’t want to _own_ Louis, he’s not even a very possessive person at all, just…

Well, he’s got jumper paws.

The sleeves of the jumper extend past his delicate wrists, half covering his hands, and Harry can’t look away. He suspects he’s been quiet for too long once he notices Louis playing with the cuffs a bit self-consciously.

“You sure it’s okay? You’re acting weird.”

“No. Wait… Yes. Yeah, it’s okay; I don’t mind. I brought plenty of jumpers.”

“Thanks, mate,” Louis says, and it’s when he reaches down to sort out the bottom of the jumper that Harry realises his legs are bare. If it wasn’t for the little sliver of fabric visible on his upper thigh, Harry would think he wasn’t wearing any pants either, but, honestly, Louis without any bottoms on is horrible enough. Not because it looks bad, the complete opposite really. Harry can’t stop staring until he pinches his own thigh, hard, the pain enough of a distraction that he finally breaks free from the spell Louis’ got over him.

“I think you forgot something,” he says then, pointing to Louis’ bare legs, who laughs.

“I’m aware.” He smirks at Harry, obviously aware that Harry’s been staring and determined to make this as awkward as possible for the both of them. “What, did you think I was planning to explore this glorious, cold-as-shit city half-naked?”

“Um…”

“Oh my god.”

“No! Of course I didn’t think that,” he corrects, but Louis’ smirk is still very much in place.

“Maybe I will, then.”

Harry groans internally, because even though he’s perfectly aware that Louis would never actually do that, he can’t help but picture the goosebumps that would cover Louis’ thighs, the way he would delicately shake, probably refusing Harry’s offers of a jacket (or a cuddle) until he’s on the verge of being frozen.

For fuck’s sake, he’s at risk of getting hard over bloody _goosebumps_.

“Go put your trousers on,” he says, wincing at the sound of his Dad voice, and Louis snorts.

“Okay, _Dad_ , I’ll wear trousers like a good boy.”

“Jesus, Lou, don’t do that.”

“Do what? Put my trousers on? I thought you wanted that - you’re terrible at this, you know.”

Harry doesn’t even want to know what _this_ is; he doesn’t say anything else on the subject, and Louis - most likely realising Harry won’t take his bait anymore, sets about actually finding something to cover his legs.

Unfortunately for Harry, however, it’s with a pair of skin-tight jeggings that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination - something Louis seems perfectly aware of - and runs the risk of tearing Harry’s attention away from the sights he’s meant to be seeing soon.

But it’s fine; he can survive this.

(At least, until Niall drags them to get poutine, and Louis moans around his first mouthful so loudly that Harry nearly chokes himself on a chip, and Liam nearly chokes to death laughing about it.)

(Maybe ‘survive’ is too strong of a word.)

* * *

The four of them are laid out on Liam’s bed, exhausted from their adventure - Shawn’s gone off somewhere with his half of the wedding party - and Harry nudges Niall’s calf with his big toe.

“What time is the rehearsal dinner tomorrow night?”

“What rehearsal dinner?”

“Umm…”

“What would we even need to rehearse?” Niall continues.

“Uh… Your wedding?”

“Bullshit,” he laughs. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

If Harry didn’t know his friend so well, he might have been concerned, but he does, and he’s not, and he’s sure that Niall knows what he’s doing. Well, almost. Like, at least 50%.

“I’m pretty sure that’s one of those required things, mate,” Liam pipes up, and Niall kicks out at both of them, missing both and hitting Louis instead.

“Ouch!” he yelps, and Harry pats his arm.

“Thank you for your sacrifice.”

“Stop being weird.”

“I’m not being weird,” Harry says, rolling his eyes at Louis, who returns the gesture with an extra heaping of sarcasm.

“I’m leaving,” he huffs, and Harry suspects his attitude is just a cover for how tired he is, so he doesn’t protest when Louis gets up and exits the room without so much as a backwards glance.

“I’ve got to go check on something,” Niall says next, and then he’s following Louis out the door, leaving Liam and Harry behind. Harry’s fine with this, already planning to let himself fall asleep here, when Liam - who’s apparently off the bed now - starts tugging on his ankle.

“C’mon, lazybones,” he sing-songs, “get up! We’ve got to go rehearse.”

Harry sits up quickly, confused. “Rehearse what? I thought Niall said—”

“Not that kind of rehearse.”

“Then what—”

“Remember that video Niall sent you a week ago?”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes,” Liam crows. “And it’s going to be our best performance yet.”

Harry sighs - he hadn’t actually considered the fact that Niall was serious about that plan - and can already feel the ache in his muscles that’s sure to appear after this as he follows Liam down the hallway. It’s not a total hardship, though, because he knows it’ll make his friend happy, and he also kind of wants Louis to see. It’d been hard not spilling the beans to Louis, actually, but seeing the look of surprise on his face tomorrow would be worth it. Then again, Louis’ never been very receptive to surprises. Or maybe that only applies to Harry.

Well, hopefully he’s moved past that, because Harry’s going to surprise the fuck out of him tomorrow.

Right after he manages to catch up with Liam.

* * *

Louis had woken up alone this morning. Even before he noticed Harry’s side of the bed was empty, the fact that he’d been allowed to sleep so late was enough of an indication. Apparently, no one had ever informed Harry that you were meant to enjoy yourself on holidays, which does _not_ include waking up early. He knows it’s just Harry’s internal clock being used to running on Beau-time - he remembers that feeling from when his younger sisters were small - but it still doesn’t excuse him waking _Louis_ up at the same time.

Harry still isn’t back when Louis finishes in the shower, and he sits down in the armchair by the window to order lunch from room service when he notices a missed call notification from his sister Phoebe on his phone screen.

Worried it could be an emergency, he sets the menu down and hits call.

It’s not an emergency, just his younger sister being, well, a younger sister, and begging him to bring back gifts.

“Will you at least send me a postcard?” she tries, when he tells her no. (Obviously, he won’t be going home empty-handed, but he’d rather not ruin the surprise.)

“I’m only here for the weekend, Pheebs. It’d be a bit pointless,” Louis says, and he swears he can hear her pouting through the phone.

“Please?”

Louis almost tells her no, because he and Harry have already done the touristy thing, and he’s got presents picked out for each sibling and he doesn’t want to brave the shops again, but then he remembers seeing a rack of Toronto-themed postcards by the front desk. He makes a mental note to grab one when he goes down for the bachelor party tonight to indulge her odd new obsession with snail mail. “Okay,” he sighs. “But just to warn you, I’ll be home before the postcard gets to you.”

“That’s not the point,” she tells him, and now he can hear an eye roll, so loud it’s crossed the ocean, and he laughs.

“What do you want it to say?”

“I’m not supposed to know that; you’re supposed to know that.”

Louis doesn’t know what to put, but he figures he’ll know once he sits down and thinks about it. Not right now, though, because he’s meant to be showering and getting ready to go out soon. Harry’s supposed to be doing the same, but Louis hasn’t seen the man since he disappeared with Niall and Liam around midday to do ‘secret wedding stuff’ that Louis wasn’t allowed to know about. He’d been tempted to follow them, but figured it wasn’t worth it. Plus, his sister had called, and he couldn’t very well ignore her in favour of stalking Harry. And Niall and Liam. (But mostly Harry.)

Louis’ getting ready to tell Phoebe he’s got to go when the door to the room opens, and a very sweaty Harry falls through. The apples of his cheeks are bright red and he’s panting heavily, but grinning at Louis from ear to ear.

“Any chance you’re going to tell me why you look like that?” Louis asks.

“Nope,” Harry replies, taking care to pop the p. “It’s a secret, remember?”

“You and your bloody secrets,” he says, rolling his eyes. He forgets he’s still on the phone until he hears a squeal.

“Is that Harry Styles? Is Harry Styles with you?”

“Hold on, since when do you care about Harry Styles?”

“Uh, since always? I love old-school boy bands.”

“Old school—” Louis sputters, then sighs. “Yes, he’s here, but we’re running late so you can’t talk to him. Ever.”

“Lo-u-u,” she whines. “You’re so mean.”

“Yup, that’s me, mean old Lou. I’ve got to go now, and you need to go follow a different band.”

“I don’t _follow them_ ,” she protests. “I just think Harry’s really fit, and I like the way— ”

“Bye!” Louis hangs up, and looks over at Harry who’s staring at him with raised eyebrows.

“What was all that about?”

“What was all what about?”

“That,” Harry says, gesturing towards the phone. “You were being weird.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were.”

“I think you must’ve sweated out your brain, old man, because nothing about that conversation was weird. In any way. At all. Whatsoever.”

“You can’t sweat out your brain.”

“Then congratulations, you’ve made medical history. Now go away.”

“This is my room, too.”

Louis frowns, because Harry’s right. He doesn’t know why he’s so flustered by his sister’s admission, but he can’t look Harry in the eye as he gathers his things quickly and heads to the bathroom for a shower.

“Don’t take too long,” he hears Harry call before he shuts the door. “I need to get ready too.”

“Noted,” he calls back, taking care to turn the lock to avoid a repeat of the shower incident, and starts the water up. It doesn’t take long to warm up, and Louis considers taking a long shower on purpose just to bug Harry, but then he remembers they’re meant to meet everyone at a specific time, and it would be rude to make the grooms wait to start their party on Louis’ account.

(It has nothing to do with the fact that he doesn’t really want to bug Harry, of course.)

 

Harry sits on the hotel bed and tries not to think about the fact that Louis is in the shower. Possibly naked. No, definitely naked. Christ, sharing a room was a bad idea. He presses down on the bulge in his trousers, willing it to disappear, but he only manages to make it worse with the friction. (The fact that he’s picturing Louis under the spray, rivulets of water running down his chest towards his groin and setting in his pubic hair isn’t helping much.)

He doesn’t realise he’s started actively rubbing at his erection until the shower shuts off. He can hear Louis shuffling around in the bathroom, and knows he has only seconds before he emerges. Harry crab walks up the bed and scrambles for the nearest pillow. Louis opens the door just as Harry places it on his lap, and he raises his eyebrows. “Planning to take a nap?” he asks, and Harry shakes his head. Louis’ eyes flick to the pillow in his lap, and for a horrible second Harry thinks he’s going to say something, but—

“Shower’s free.”

Harry mumbles his thanks before darting into the bathroom, still holding the pillow to his crotch. Which proves to be problematic, because now he’s standing in the hotel bathroom with a pillow and nowhere to put it. He can’t go back out without explaining to Louis why he was holding the pillow like that in the first place, but he also can’t keep the bloody thing in here.

With his back facing the room - because maybe if he can’t see Louis, then Louis can’t see him - Harry cracks the door open far enough to fling the pillow through, and slams it shut immediately after.

He pretends he can’t hear Louis’ confused yelp, instead focusing on the fact that he’s still hard, and contemplating the morality of having a quick wank while Louis waits in the room. In the end, he decides that it’s not worth the risk, instead choosing to crank the temperature as cold as it will go and trying not to make any noise as the icy water hits his skin. The effect of the chill is almost immediate; there’s no longer any physical evidence that Louis’ presence had affected him in any way.

It’s one of the quickest showers Harry’s taken in a while, and Louis’ standing in front of the wardrobe when he finally emerges.

“Do you have something I could borrow?” Louis asks, his back facing Harry. “I don’t think I have any shirts that match the atmosphere of the club.”

“What’s wrong with what you were wearing before?” Harry argues. “I thought that looked nice.”

“It was a t-shirt.”

“So?”

“ _So_ , we’re going out with famous people and I want to look cool.” Louis blushes then, because that definitely was the opposite of cool, but it’s Harry, and Harry’s not going to call him out on it.

“Most of my stuff will be too big on you.”

“Most of my stuff is too big on me; it’ll be fine.”

Harry shrugs. “Check my suitcase,” he says, and Louis swears his voice sounds a bit strangled. He remembers he’s only wearing a towel, but Harry hadn’t reacted that way before, so he’s probably hearing things.

“Cheers, mate.”

“It’s not a problem.”

Louis’ back is turned when he lets the towel drop, and he makes no move to pick it back up again. Harry makes a strangled noise behind him, and Louis looks over his shoulder at Harry with his eyebrows raised. “You okay there, Hazza?”

“’m fine,” Harry says. “Just swallowed wrong.” It doesn’t quite sound like a lie, but it doesn’t sound like the truth either. Louis would say something, but it’s a can of worms he doesn’t want to touch right before going out in public, so he grabs the first pair of pants he sees and yanks them on, remembering too late that he’s standing in front of Harry’s suitcase.

“Did you forget pants?”

“No.”

“Okay. I just assumed when you said you wanted to borrow something you meant, like, a shirt.”

“I did.”

“Okay.”

Since Harry doesn’t explicitly ask him to take the pants off, Louis figures it’s okay to wear them - though he works to hide how much he likes it - and returns his attention to his search. As he flicks through his options he realises nothing that Harry’s brought along fits his usual style, but maybe that’s not a bad thing tonight.

Eventually, he settles on a slightly sheer black jumper that he wishes he wasn’t about to cover up with his jacket, because the way Harry’s looking at him right now is more flattering than creepy, and he preens under the attention. Maybe he doesn’t need the jacket, he reasons, as Harry’s intense gaze is warming up his insides plenty.

(And if the knowledge of that stare makes him swing his hips just a little bit more as he walks, well, it’s only fair.)

* * *

In the end, the cold wins, but Harry still doesn’t look away until he absolutely has to, and even then, once they’re all settled inside the limo, Louis can feel the gaze return.

Since arriving in Toronto, Louis’ been painfully aware of the way the lines between them have started to blur. He’s also painfully aware of how little he minds, and especially painfully ( _painfully_ ) aware of how much he’d like the line to disappear completely.

He’d be embarrassed if Harry wasn’t making his (hopefully) similar feelings so bloody obvious.

The limo comes to a stop in front of the club, and Louis is the first one out. He can already feel the thrum of the music in his bones, the excitement of a good party taking over. It’s enough to banish all the thoughts he’d been agonizing about during the journey over and he bounces on the balls of his feet impatiently as the rest of their group takes ages to emerge from inside the vehicle, Harry being the last one to make an appearance.

“How nice of you to join us,” Louis snarks, and Harry just rolls his eyes.

“Impatient much?”

“Do you even know me?”

“Sorry we’re not all as young and sprightly as you are, lad,” Niall laughs, and Louis pretends to glare at him.

“H-e-e-y,” Harry admonishes him. “No glaring at the groom.”

“Aw,” he complains, “can’t I just glare at one of them?”

“No.”

“Shit, you ruin all my fun.”

“Well, your fun needs to stop involving glaring at other people.”

“Says who?”

“Says _me_.”

“Oi!” Niall’s voice cuts through their bickering. “What are you two on about?”

Harry and Louis freeze.

“He started it,” Louis insists.

“The fuck?” Harry cries, “this was all you!”

“Oh, piss off, Harold, no one likes a snitch.”

“‘m not a snitch.”

Louis just laughs and rests his palm at the small of Harry’s back, guiding him towards the entrance of the club quickly, where everyone else is already waiting. Once his hand makes contact, it hits him just how unplatonic of a gesture it is, but at this point, it seems more awkward to pull away, so he doesn’t.

And that’s the only reason. Honest.

He ignores the look Liam gives him as they enter, and he uses the shuffle as an opportunity to let his hand fall. He wishes he hadn’t. He wishes this wasn’t so awkward. He wishes it was more awkward. It’s all very confusing.

Louis doesn’t have time to overanalyse his emotions right now; he’s here to party, after all.

He hasn’t been inside a proper club in ages, and nothing’s ever come quite close to this one, either. The five of them are piled into a booth together, Niall’s got his arm slung over Shawn’s shoulder, and Louis’ sandwiched in between them and Harry. It’s not a terrible place to be, actually.

“So,” he says, addressing Niall and Shawn, “do we get to hear the story of how you two met?”

“You lot know it already,” Niall answers.

“I don’t,” Louis points out.

“Neither do I,” Harry chimes in.

“Yeah, well, whose fault is that?”

Harry pouts but keeps his mouth shut.

“C’mon, Nialler,” Louis presses, “I know you’re secretly dying to tell us the goss.”

“Nope.”

“Fine, then I will.”

“Thank you, Shawn,” he says. “Now, spill.”

Shawn laughs and takes Niall’s hand, who sticks his tongue out petulantly at Louis. “We met in LA, actually. I’d scored a regular gig at a place there, and Niall showed up enough that he grabbed my attention.”

“That’s because I was trying really hard to get it,” Niall pretends to whisper to Louis, who chuckles at his utter lack of shamelessness.

“We started writing songs together,” Shawn continues, unfazed by Niall’s no-so-subtle aside, “mostly for me to perform, but it turns out Niall had been secretly working on something behind my back.”

“Was it a song?” Louis asks, half poking fun at the cliche story and half truly invested.

“Of course it was a song,” Harry says. “It _was_ a song, right, Ni?”

Niall huffs. “Why don’t you lot tell it then, since it’s apparently so bloody predictable.”

“It’s not the story that’s predictable,” Liam interjects. “It’s you.”

“Oh, because that’s so much better.”

“What was the song about?” Harry asks, ever the peacemaker.

“Sex,” Niall and Shawn answer in unison, loud enough to draw a glance from the booth next to them. Niall winks back, and the little semicircle titters before returning to their own conversation.

“I suppose that’s one way to get someone’s attention,” Louis snorts.

“Well, it worked, didn’t it?”

Shawn smiles at Niall, and Louis tries not to think about how much he’d like someone to look at him that way. Well, not Shawn, obviously. And definitely not Harry. _Obviously_.

He needs another drink.

“I need another drink,” he says. “‘scuse me, lads.”

Everyone scoots aside to let him past, and Louis makes his way to the bar for a refill. And a breather. One would think that living with Harry this long would have made him immune to close proximity, but one would be wrong.

Totally and completely and irrevocably wrong.

He doesn’t have to wait long for his drink, and returns quickly enough to find that the topic of conversation has not changed. Though it did sort of… die.

Louis settles back into his seat, stretching his arms out behind him in a way that has nothing to do with the fact that Harry’s sat next to him. “So,” he addresses Niall, because someone has to get the conversational ball rolling again, “Harold here tells me the two of you used to play golf a lot.”

Niall glares at Harry then, who cowers.

“What?” Louis asks. “What did I say?”

“It’s not you,” Niall says, “It’s him. Lost me golfing buddy round the time this one left us.”

“Harold,” Louis pretends to gasp, “is this true? Did you really leave poor Nialler here high and dry with no one to play golf with? For shame, lad!”

“He could have taken someone else,” Harry points out.

“Harold makes a fair point here; wWhy didn’t you just take Shawn?”

“Why don’t you just take Shawn?”

“Because he’s terrible at it.”

“Shit, Ni, what the hell?” Louis sputters.

Shawn laughs. “It’s fine, I’ve accepted it.”

“Although,” Niall continues, looking thoughtful, “I suppose golfing without Harry means I don’t have to listen to his terrible jokes.”

“Excuse you, I am hilarious.”

Louis snorts. “Even I know that’s not true.”

“I am!”

“Prove it then.”

“Gladly. Why did the baboon ask the giraffe ‘why the long face?’,” Harry asks, and then continues on rather thanand waiting for a response. “Because he thought his neck was his face!”

Shawn is the only one who laughs, though it’s more of a titter than anything, and Louis pokes him in the ribs. “When we said bad jokes, we didn’t mean shit ones, Haz, oh my _God_.”

“That was funny!” he protests. “Right, Liam?” Liam shakes his head. “Niall? That was funny, right?”

“Nuh uh, you’re not dragging me into this.”

“Have you ever smelled mothballs?”

“Yes?”

“Really?” Harry chokes back a laugh. “How did you get it’s little legs apart?”

“ _Harry._ ”

Undeterred, he tries again. “What do you call a fast zombie?”

“Oh no,” Louis groans, dropping his head to Liam’s shoulder.

“A zooooom-bie.”

“Bloody hell, that was terrible.”

“I’ve got more,” Harry grins, and this time it’s the entire booth who groans. “How do you charge a kinky robot?” he starts.

“What the fuck, ’arry,” Niall slurs.

“If you say ‘a buttplug’,” Louis warns, “you can sleep in the corridorhall tonight.”

Harry’s eyes go wide and he clamps his mouth shut. Louis snickers. “Was I right, then?”

Harry shakes his head.

“No? What’s the answer then?”

Harry glares, and Louis’ snicker becomes a giggle at Harry’s attempted intimidation.

“You still look like an angry kitten when you’re upset,” his alcohol-loosened tongue allows him to admit, and Harry grumbles through his still closed lips. Louis pushes away the urge to lean forward and kiss those lips; he really wishes he didn’t know what they felt like, as the memory of their accidental kiss - although brief - has managed to stick with him since that day.

His mind is just hazy enough now that the realisation doesn’t alarm him, but not hazy enough to actually act on the urge.

Somehow, he manages to make it through the rest of the party - and Harry’s jokes, which resume after his little strop - and climbs into bed that night with his mind blissfully free of all Harry-related things.

(It’s amazing how good he’s become at lying to himself.)

* * *

Louis exits the bathroom to find a very naked Harry Styles flitting around the room, shaking his hips to the beat of the music he must have turned on while Louis was in the shower.

“Shania Twain?” he snorts. “Really?”

“Do you have a problem with Shania Twain?”

I do if it means you dancing around starkers, Louis thinks. “Of course not, just seemed like an odd choice of music to get ready to.”

Harry looks at him sceptically. “Are you serious? This is the _epitome_ of getting ready music. It’s literally in the lyrics!”

“Alright, alright, no reason to get so heated,” Louis laughs. “I’ll just leave you and Shania to your business, then.”

“We have no business,” Harry says, “but you and I do. Why aren’t you getting ready?”

“Because the wedding isn’t for another hour?”

“So? You can’t wait until the last minute, Lou, are you crazy?”

“Apparently,” he mutters to himself. And then, loud enough so that Harry can hear, “Is there a reason you’re not wearing anything right now?”

Harry looks down at himself, eyes widening like he hadn’t realised. “Oh, whoops. I guess I forgot you were here.”

“Wow, thanks.”

“No— I just mean…”

“Relax, love,” Louis laughs, “I know what you meant.” _And I’d rather die before allowing you to find out just how much I’m enjoying the view_.

Harry’s shoulders visibly relax, and he grins at Louis. “So, do I get to see what you’re wearing yet?”

“Not yet,” Louis replies mysteriously, making Harry pout before he ducks behind the opened wardrobe door, using it as a makeshift screen.

“Will you at least give me a hint?”

“Good things come to those who wait.”

“Better things come to those who tell me what they’re wearing.”

“I’m wearing a suit.”

“Jesus, Lou. Don’t be a dick.”

“I’m not!” Louis protests, and Harry chooses that moment to make his reappearance, stepping out from behind the closet door and spinning around slowly. “What do you think?”

Louis wonders briefly if it’s possible to live without your tongue, because he’s pretty sure he’s just gone and swallowed his. Oh my _God_ , how dare he do this? How dare he look so fucking fit, in his bloody designer suit over a simple black vest. Louis can’t do this. He can’t. He’ll just have to give Niall his apologies and hop on the next train back to England, because he can’t do this.

Harry Styles is going to be the death of him. Well, no, that’s not exactly right. Because although the man standing in front of him maybe looks like Harry Styles, Louis’ come to know him as so much more than that. He’s broken through the facade to find Harry, just Harry, and Louis —

Louis likes what he found there. Harry’s a good lad, and he’s quickly become one of Louis’ closest friends, even if Louis hadn’t been aware of the shift for some time. They’re friends, they’re mates, and mates compliment each other, mates can recognise when the other looks fit, right?

It’s fine, everything is fine and Louis can handle it, until Harry bends forward, causing the back of his neck to dip slightly and reveal the tips of his swallows.

Louis can’t handle it.

Harry shuffles awkwardly in front of him. “Does it not look okay? Is it too much? I can’t— I’ve got… I can change.”

“No!” Louis gasps, much too forcefully for the situation, and Harry looks at him, surprised at his outburst.

“No?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“No, wait. Yeah… I mean, no, don’t change. I like it. You look good. The pink, it… It looks good on you.”

“Oh.” Harry blushes softly. “Thanks.”

Suddenly Louis is very aware of how plain he’s going to look next to Harry in his simple black suit, and he momentarily wishes he’d chosen to bring the suit from his mother’s wedding instead; but Lottie had insisted it was the wrong season for it (and ‘not old enough to be considered vintage’) so he’d let her talk him into the other one.

He clears his throat and shuffles his feet, looking around the room for something to distract himself with until it’s time to leave. Unable to locate anything, he finds himself meeting Harry’s eyes, and his heart skips a beat when he sees the expression there.

“I wanna touch it,” Harry says.

“Touch… Touch what? You want to…”

“Oh my God, no. No, of course not. I meant your hair.”

“You want to touch my hair?”

Harry nods.

Louis blinks, because what the _fuck_? “Well, you can’t. This took me ages to get perfect, I won’t let you mess it up.”

“But it looks really soft,” he whines.

“Thank you. You still can’t touch it.”

 

“Can I trust you not to touch my hair?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Louis narrows his eyes, not quite trusting Harry’s ability to keep his giant paws to himself - he’s a tactile lad, Louis knows this - but the combination of the knowledge that Harry’s going to practically have to sit on his own hands to resist messing with his hair and the way Harry keeps no-so-subtly checking out his arse is weirdly flattering, even if he’s got no idea what it means. He’s caught Harry checking him out before, but never quite this intensely. Louis really shouldn’t like this as much as he does, attention like this from anyone else would feel like objectification, but with Harry it’s just a rush, makes his stomach swoop in a way that it hasn’t in a while. Or, like, ever.

His suit doesn’t feel so plain anymore.

* * *

The wedding is gorgeous. Harry cries the entire time, glad Louis is seated with the guests, and therefore can’t make fun of him. (Also, he noticed Louis trying not to cry himself, which is extremely endearing in Harry’s opinion.) It’s completely perfect. It’s amazingly beautiful. The flowers, the music, their suits, the guests’ outfits, the venue. All of it.

Harry wants one of his own.

It’s not that he’s never considered marriage before, because he has, and he’s wanted it so fiercely that it hurt to think about sometimes, but it was never something he truly saw being part of his future. Something about seeing Niall here today, standing up at the altar and baring his soul to everyone as he and Shawn exchanged their handwritten vows, has drawn that feeling back up from where he’d shoved it down, and it’s _here_ and it’s _strong_ and it _won’t go away_. And, for some reason, he can’t stop looking at Louis.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Liam informs Harry in a whisper, interrupting his inner monologue. “The creepy frog stare. Cut it out.”

“Oh, sorry.” Harry tries his best to look everywhere _but_ at Louis, which proves to be difficult, as Louis is the sun, and Harry can’t help but bask in his warmth. It’s a problem.

“Oi, now you’re weirding out the rest of the wedding party.”

He sighs; he doesn’t want to stop looking at Louis. Hopefully, Louis hadn’t noticed that he’d been paying more attention to him in the audience then the marriage ceremony happening right in front of him. It’s not like it was his fault; Louis is just that distracting.

It’s going to be torture trying to get through the reception without touching Louis’ hair. It’s all he’s been thinking about since earlier today, and he’s contemplating a non-creepy way to go about doing that when he feels Liam grab his arm.

“It’s time,” he says, and Harry follows him, allowing himself one final glance in Louis’ direction as the other man is guided out of the room by the girls.

* * *

Somehow, Louis manages to lose track of Harry in the chaos between the wedding and the reception. He finds himself being tugged forward by Perrie, who’s being dragged by Jesy, while Jade and Leigh-Anne push him from behind.

“Where’s Harry?” he asks, more wondering out loud to himself then actually asking, as this is the second time he’s inquired, and since he received no answer this time, he assumes the result will be the same.

He’s proven right when Perrie turns her head and winks, and he rolls his eyes.

“You’re all being weird. This is weird.”

“Oi, we’re not the weird ones here,” Leigh-Anne protests. “The real weird ones are the guys who told us to— Ow! Jade, what the hell?”

“We aren’t supposed to _say anything_ ,” Jade hisses at her, and now that Louis knows there’s some sort of plan at play, he knows better than to try and stop them - something he’s learned from growing up with as many sisters as he has. It’s better to just go with it and deal with the aftermath later.

So that’s what he does.

Suddenly, the soft music that has been playing in the background disappears with the sound of a record scratch, only to be replaced by the thumping beats of a Beyonce dance remix that Louis’ never heard before. The lights dim, and a spotlight appears on the reception hall doors. He doesn’t know what to expect, but it’s definitely not to see it being flung open to reveal Shawn - clad in a black vest and leggings - flanked by his sister and Hailee who are dressed similarly, except the writing on their vests says ‘Best (Wo)man’ rather than ‘Groom 1’ like Shawn’s does.

The three of them march to the front of the hall, commanding the attention of all the guests when they start dancing. It’s obviously a routine they’ve practised, and Louis has to give them credit, because they’re doing really well. Everyone’s getting into it, swaying in their seats and whistling every time one of them completes something particularly impressive.

The music changes again, and it’s something by Status Single that Louis faintly recognises, a remix as well, but he’s mostly concentrating on the three people now entering the hall. Niall is clad in black as well, though he’s wearing black joggers instead of yoga pants, and his vest says ‘Groom 2’. Liam and Harry are behind him, Liam’s wearing joggers like Niall and Harry in leggings (because apparently, he’s trying to actually kill Louis tonight) and Louis knows they’re about to start dancing but he’s not prepared for them to _start dancing_.

He immediately hides his face behind his hands as soon as the three of them start to slink towards the stage and Shawn, where he stays until curiosity gets the best of him and he peeks out from between his fingers only to let out an undignified squeal at the sight in front of him.

“Perrie,” he hisses, “ _Perrie_ , oh my god, Harry’s twerking. He’s fucking _twerking_. In _public_. Oh, bloody hell, we need to leave.”

“They’re _all_ twerking,” she points out - rather unhelpfully, in Louis’ opinion - and he scowls.

“Yes, but he’s twerking the _most_ — and now his shirt is off. Perrie! _Perrie_! Are you seeing this?”

“Of course I am, you muppet. And, again, they’ve all taken their shirts off. It’s part of the dance.”

“It’s public indecency.”

“Since when do you care about being indecent in public?”

“Since my…” Louis stops himself. “Since Harry decided to go full Magic Mike at a wedding reception.”

Jesy elbows him. “Shut _up_ , I’m trying to enjoy the show.”

Louis pulls a face and rubs at his side, but stays quiet as the dance goes on, trying his best not to cover his face completely again.

He notes that Liam looks a bit constipated, like he’s focusing so hard on nailing the choreography that he doesn’t have the time to remember how to smile. (Or maybe he really is constipated; Louis doesn’t know his life.)

Niall thrusts his hips forward and at the same time, Harry and Liam drop it low. Liam’s journey back up is smoother than Harry’s, but Harry makes up for the fact that he has to use his hand by giving the crowd a hip thrust of his own. (Which earns him a small frown from Liam, further cementing Louis’ theory about his dedication to the choreography.)

It’s turned into a proper dance off now, the song has smoothly transitioned to a dance version of the one Niall wrote for Shawn, and Louis realises this is meant to be the wedding party introduction as well as the couple’s first dance. It’s cute, and Louis’ sure he’d find it cuter if he hadn’t just had to witness Harry’s terribly embarrassing dance moves. At least people don’t know they came together. Hopefully.

The six of them battle it out as the guests cheer. Louis joins in, half because he doesn’t want to look like he’s not happy for them, and half because he actually is happy for them, because the wedding was lovely and the reception is lovely, and honestly he’d rather watch this than stare at two people awkwardly swaying on the dancefloor while everyone tries to decide if they’re supposed to keep looking or not.

Finally, the spectacle is complete, and Louis lets his hands drop. The couple is announced together for the first time, and the cheer that erupts is almost deafening, but Louis is too busy making plenty of noise of his own to care.

After both Shawn and Niall dance with various family members, the floor opens up to all the guests. Louis’ alone at his table now, as the girls have left him, and he’s debating going to find Harry when Harry shows up in front of him.

“Do you want to dance?” he asks, and seems to realise that’s a bit strange, because he quickly follows that up with, “you don’t have to, and not like that, just because you’re my date— Well, not my date… Do you want to— Fuck, do you want to dance?”

Louis raises his eyebrows. “Are you finished?”

Harry visibly swallows. “I think so.”

“Okay, good,” he says. “And, yes, I’ll dance with you.”

“Alright,” Harry replies, “alright, let’s do this.” He takes Louis’ hand then, and Louis allows himself to be guided onto the floor. The song that’s playing is slow, Louis isn’t familiar with it, but Harry’s humming along as they sway in time to the music.

“The last time we did this you called me a hooligan,” Louis says, mostly to fill the silence that’s not exactly awkward, but could mean something if he doesn’t hurry up and break it.

“You were wearing a beanie indoors,” Harry defends himself. “That wasn’t my fault.”

“It is your fault, however, that you have the vocabulary of a 65-year-old.”

“If it helps, I don’t think you look like a hooligan right now,” Harry tells him, using Louis’ distraction to spin him around.

Louis tries to hide the fact that he’s stumbled as he says, “I know, you just told me so.”

“No, I said you’re well fit, not that you weren’t a hooligan.”

Louis sniffs. “I assumed it was implied.”

They go back to dancing then, and there’s only one more slow song before the DJ starts playing stereotypical reception music - and some not too stereotypical things. They both find themselves pulled into the throng, dancing along with the large group to everything from ABBA to the Harlem Shake and lots in between.

They finally manage to slip out of the hall during _Girls Just Wanna Have Fun_ when everyone is too distracted by Cyndi Lauper to notice their absence, because Harry pretends like he needs some air, and Louis offers to join him.

They’re in a secluded alcove Louis discovered when Harry swallows his nerves and just goes for it - consequences be damned. “Meant to tell you earlier…” he says awkwardly. Slowly. “I, uh,” He clears his throat. “I like your suit. You look well fit.”

Louis raises his eyebrows. “Thanks. You look well fit too, Haz.”

Harry blushes, because how could he not? “Thank you.” And then, because that’s not exactly what he was working up the nerve to confess, he says, “I’d like to kiss you,” and watches as Louis’ eyes widen in surprise. “If that’s okay,” he amends quickly. “If you’ll let me.”

“And what makes you think I’ll let you?” Louis asks then, and there’s a challenge behind his words. One Harry is more than happy to accept, especially when a hand comes up and grabs him by the back of the neck and tugs his head down.

Then Louis’ lips are on his and they’re snogging and it’s wonderful and Harry feels as if he might die right where he stands. He’d die happy, he thinks, in Louis’ arms with Louis’ tongue in his mouth and Louis’ scent invading his senses, killing everything he’s trying to think. The only thing he knows anymore is that he never wants this to stop, that he could go on doing this forever, and he might have, had Louis not broken the kiss just enough to whisper a breathy invitation into his ear. Harry nods his response, and allows Louis to tug him out of their secluded hiding spot. He ducks his head, hoping no one else is out here who might try and stop them - he might actually explode if he doesn’t get to their room _right now_ , and luckily no one does. Not even when Louis’ got him pressed up against the wall of the lift, or when Louis’ grinding against him next to their door.

Harry uses his last working brain cell to hang the “do not disturb” sign on the door, and then Louis’ tugging him inside by the back of his suit jacket.

Any other time, Harry would complain about wrinkled fabrics and treating fancy clothes with special care, but that same jacket finds it’s carelessly thrown to the floor not five seconds later, and Harry couldn’t give less of a fuck, especially not when Louis’ grinding against him, making the most delicious little moans as Harry catches his lips in a kiss that’s more teeth than tongue and lasts far longer than either of them can breathe.

“I’ll be right back,” Harry gasps out when their mouths finally part again, “I have to…” he points to the ensuite, “go there.” He pushes past Louis and dashes into the ensuite, not quite missing the stunned expression on the other man’s face when he does.

Harry forces himself not to slam the door shut and looks at himself hard in the mirror. “C’mon Styles,” he mutters at his reflection, “you can do this. It’s going to be fine. It’s going to go fine. You’re going to snap out of this, go back in there and sleep with the fittest man you’ve ever seen, and you’re going to do it right now because he’s probably getting impatient and we don’t want him to think that we don’t want to sleep with him, we— Oh, god,” Harry lets his head fall forward, “I’m talking to myself. I’m so nervous I’m talking to myself. For fuck’s sake.”

He grips the counter hard with one hand, and uses the other to turn the tap on. As he splashes cold water on his face, he feels himself begin to calm down. He can do this.

“I can do this,” he says.

“I sure hope so,” Louis says from the doorway.

Harry jumps. “Jesus, Lou!”

“Sorry, did I scare you?”

“No.”

“You’re such a liar.” he snorts.

“What do you want?”

“You, mostly,” Louis says. “I could lie and say I’ve only wanted you since we danced together tonight, but I can’t. I’ve wanted you for ages, you know.” He takes a step closer, as he continues frankly. “I dream about kissing you,” he says next, and Harry lets out an embarrassingly high-pitched moan.

He covers up the incriminating noise with a small cough. And then a large cough, because the small cough chokes him a bit and the universe hates him and wants him to embarrass himself in front of Louis. (More than he already has, of course.)

Before Louis gets any closer, Harry turns to face the mirror again. When he catches Louis eyes in the reflection, he finds it’s infinitely easier to confess things this way.

“I don’t think I need to tell you how long I’ve wanted you,” he says, and Louis chuckles, walking forward until he’s flush against Harry’s back and stands on his toes to press his lips to Harry’s shoulder. (Well, Harry assumes he’s on his toes if he’s the correct height for shoulder kissing.)

“You couldn’t have wanted me all that time,” Louis chides. “l was so horrible to you.”

“Trust me, I tried not to. Want you, I mean. Especially once you came to stay, because what kind of person would I be if I made a move on you when you were so vulnerable.”

“You’d be a normal one,” Louis answers, and Harry can tell he’s going for a joking tone, only it’s not quite covering up the waver in his voice as he says it. “But, then again,” he continues, “when have you ever been normal.”

“Was that a question or a statement of fact?”

“What I’m saying is,” Louis moves closer, grinding against Harry’s arse slowly, “you don’t have to be nervous. It’s just me. It’s just us. And if it helps, I’m not exactly a picture of calm right now either.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You were literally giving yourself a pep talk in the bathroom mirror.”

“So?”

“So, I’d say that implies that you’re nervous. And I’m telling you that you don’t have to be.”

_I have every reason to be nervous_ , Harry thinks. _How could I not be when it’s you_? “I… I just— I don’t want you to be temporary,” he whispers, steeling himself for Louis’ inevitable rejection due to his insecurities, and is surprised when Louis answers, because he’s sure his heart is pounding too loudly for any sort of conversation to take place right now.

“So don’t let me be,” Louis says, and Harry shuts his eyes, tight tight _tight_ , because Louis can’t see everything he’s feeling right now; it’s too much.

“It’s not that simple.”

“Of course it is, Hazza. Don’t be stupid.”

Louis’ easy teasing manages to calm Harry, to remind him that, yes, Louis’ in front of him, naked and beautiful and intimidating as all hell, but it’s also just Louis. Just the man he sees at the breakfast table nearly every morning shoving his mouth full of coco pops, milk dribbling down his chin. The man he’s seen spend a good 20 minutes trying to coax Miss Kitty out from behind the sofa after Clifford gave her a fright with his loud and enthusiastic greeting. The man he’s seen happy, and sad, and angry, and pleased, and irritable, and…

Well, right now he’s looking at Harry like he’s something edible, something he’s been craving for a while, and Harry preens under the attention. It’s been so long since someone’s looked at him that way, and way longer since someone’s looked at him that way when Harry actually wanted them to.

He lets Louis take his hand then, lets himself be guided forward until their chests are pressed together, until Harry can feel how hard Louis is. Louis grinds forward, and Harry groans when Louis’ clothed cock brushes against his own.

“I want you to fuck me,” he says, and Louis’ breath hitches at the confession.

“Are you sure?”

Harry nods, because he’s absolutely sure, and buries his face into Louis’ neck. He licks over the pulse point there, relishing in the way his actions have caused Louis’ heart rate to speed up.

“Okay,” Louis says. “Okay, yeah. I can do that.” He reaches up and begins undoing the buttons of his shirt as Harry watches, holding off for as long as he can before he’s knocking Louis’ hands away and taking over the task himself.

“Sorry,” he apologises, though he’s not very sorry at all. “I’m not a very patient person.”

“Really? This is completely new information,” Louis deadpans, and Harry swats at his arm playfully.

“Be quiet.”

Louis, for probably the first time in his life, obeys him, reaching back and bracing a hand against the dresser for balance. He watches silently as Harry steps forward and slowly drops to his knees. He can still feel Louis’ eyes on him as he works to get his trousers off, holding each foot up as he gently tugs the fabric over his ankles. He’s only just finished when a pair of pants comes sliding down Louis’ thighs.

“Sorry,” he hears from above, “I couldn’t wait.”

When Harry raises his head, Louis’ cock is centimetres away from his face. “Oh.”

“Sorry,” he says again.

“Sorry?”

“Yeah… Sorry for— It’s in your…”

“I can see that,” Harry says, and then giggles a bit, because it’s sort of ridiculous, really.

“I can feel you staring.”

“I’m not staring; don’t be conceited.”

Louis doesn’t even try to deny the alleged conceit, choosing instead to focus on getting Harry out of _his_ trousers. His hands scrabble to undo the buttons when Harry stills them with his own.

“Are you okay with this?”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I’m okay with this. I just…” He trails off, and Louis lets his hands fall.

“What is it?”

Harry looks down, avoiding Louis’ eyes and mumbles something he can’t hear.

“What is it, H?”

“You don’t have to do this because you feel guilty.”

“You think I want to have sex with you because I feel guilty?”

“Yes?”

Harry cups Louis’ softly, feeling the heat of him against his palm. Squeezing once, Harry pulls his hand back, and breaks the kiss.

“Oh, you arsehole,” Louis groans into his mouth. It’s not anywhere near sexy, but it still manages to send a zing up Harry’s spine. He caused that noise. Him.

Harry knows he shouldn’t tease, but it’s been so long since he’s been comfortable around another person like this, secure enough in their attraction to him that he feels like he can.

“What are you going to do about it?” he asks coquettishly - he couldn’t be laying it on any thicker. (It makes him feel sexy. Sue him.)

Louis’ eyes narrow. “I don’t think you’re ready to find that out, love,” he says, a wicked smile growing on his lips.

That zing is there again, this time laced with anticipation. Harry’s standing at the edge of the cliff. And then…

“I want you to show me.”

He jumps.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [niall and shawn's first dance was inspired by this video!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PjN_Vt-LYpc)


	6. Chapter 6

Louis whispers something under his breath that sounds a lot like “darling,” and Harry feels himself shiver. He tells himself that it’s not really Louis, that he’s probably dreaming, and didn’t _actually_ call Harry any pet names. But then Louis’ smacking his lips together, his eyelids fluttering open as he wakes up fully and gives Harry a sleepy grin.

“Good morning, love,” he says, and it’s not quite “darling”, but it’s still enough for Harry’s stomach to swoop and his mouth to go dry. He’s nervous, and it’s weird. It’s just Louis, after all. He knows Louis. He’s comfortable with Louis. Why can he suddenly not talk to Louis?

“Last night was fun.”

(Oh, yes. That’s why.)

Louis stretches his arms, grunting as his joints creak in protest. “I’m too young to feel this old,” he grumbles. “It should not be this hard to wake up in the morning.”

“If you’re old, what does that make me?” Harry laughs.

“Practically geriatric. We’ll have to put you in a home soon.”

“Mean.”

“I’m the worst,” Louis agrees, leaning in to kiss Harry good morning. He’s got morning breath, and Harry suspects that he does too, but none of that matters right now, because he wants to kiss Louis _now_. Louis’ mouth is pliant as Harry slips his tongue in, and their tongues slide together lazily, sleepily, until Louis suddenly flips them over.

He’s smirking as he holds himself just this side of too far away, just enough that Harry is forced to reach for him. And he does. He tangles his fingers in Louis’ hair and pulls, until Louis can’t move away anymore and Harry feels like he’s won. (In reality, he suspects Louis’ only letting him think that, but as long as he gets to kiss Louis like this - to hold fistfuls of soft hair in his hands while Louis whimpers into his mouth - Harry doesn’t give a fuck.)

The only sounds in the room are breathy sighs and the soft smacking of lips until Louis finally stops kissing him. Harry chases his mouth with his own, but Louis ducks his head to the side.

“We should probably get up,” he says.

Harry whines at that. “I don’t want to get up.”

“What about breakfast?”

“Fuck breakfast.”

“But it’s the most important meal of the day.”

“I don’t care, I want to stay here with you.”

“How can you stay here with me if I’m at breakfast?”

“You’re evil, did you know that? E-V-I-L.”

“I did know that.” Louis dodges Harry’s final half-hearted attempt at keeping him in bed, and rolls off the mattress, standing up and walking towards the chest of drawers under the telly.

“I’m borrowing a shirt,” Louis informs him, before diving into Harry’s side of the drawers. He watches for a moment, and then feels weird, so he busies himself with getting his own clothes on. Louis’ looking at him though, he can feel it, but Harry doesn’t turn around. Not yet. Not until Louis clears his throat, and Harry turns to find Louis stood in front of him in only a worn grey t-shirt.

Harry’s not prepared for the way his body reacts when he sees Louis in his - Harry’s - clothes. The t-shirt hangs just slightly too long on Louis, hitting close to the middle of his thighs; making Harry think about what those thighs looked like last night as Louis held him down and fucked into him.

“You have nice thighs,” he blurts, and Louis blinks twice, looking like a cross between amused and confused.

“Thank you?”

“You’re welcome,” Harry says, still cringing at how horribly awkward he sounds. This is not the way he wanted this morning to go. He wanted to keep the feeling from last night, the sexy one, the one that made Louis want him. He liked that feeling.

“I’m sorry I’m not still sexy.”

Louis looks more confused than amused now. “The fuck?”

“Like last night.” Harry might still be a little drunk from last night. “I don’t know how to be sexy anymore.” Correction: Harry is definitely still a little drunk from last night.

“But it’s my favourite thing about you.”

Harry can’t tell if Louis’ being serious, but he still smiles. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, “that’s what drew me in. Your natural alien charm.”

“You think I’m charming?”

“Did you miss the part where I implied you were an alien?”

“But a charming alien,” Harry points out.

“Christ,” Louis groans, and pulls Harry down for a kiss. Harry makes a noise of surprise, but returns the affection, matching Louis’ pace as the kiss grows heated quickly, until Harry’s tugging at the hem of his shirt, and Louis’ reaching down the back of Harry’s jeans.

(They don’t make it to breakfast.)

* * *

Louis’ working to catch his breath after their second round of enthusiastic sex in the past eight hours when Harry blows a raspberry on the skin below his belly button.

“What the fuck,” he rasps, flinching away from the strange feeling. Harry does it again, and then leaves his lips in place, the tiny exhales from his nose making Louis shiver. “What’re you doing?” he asks.

“Admiring you,” Harry replies.

“Do you always admire people by slobbering all over them?”

“About as often as I assault them with my body.”

Louis laughs as soon as he figures out what Harry’s referencing, remembering how upset he’d been then, and a little bit in awe of how much things have changed since that first Saturday. “I don’t know how we got to this point,” he says eventually, “but I’m fucking glad we made it here.”

“The sun must set to rise,” Harry replies sagely, as if he’s just quoted Shakespeare and not bloody Coldplay. (And as if that’s a perfectly normal way to speak to someone after you’ve just got each other off.)

Louis sits up straighter in bed and frowns. “What does that even mean?”

“I think it means…” he trails off. “I don’t know. Nothing, probably. Just one of those lines that sound nice. Empty words.”

“There’s no such thing as empty words. Christ, Haz, you do talk some shit.”

“Well, what do you think it means, if you’re so clever?”

“I think it means you’re trying to be deep,” Louis says. “And you’re failing, by the way.”

“Why are you being a dick?”

“That’s a pound in the swear jar, sweetheart,” Louis informs him.

“We aren’t home. And that isn’t even a swear word.”

“It was a swear word last week. Why was it a swear word last week and not now?”

“Because we aren’t home. And because I make the rules.”

“ _Cheater,_ ” Louis gasps, loud and fake scandalised. “How could you betray my trust like that, you… You… You charlatan!” He makes his point with a dramatic stab of his pointer finger, which Harry catches and brings up to his mouth. He holds eye contact as he draws the digit into his mouth, sucking softly and smiling when he hears Louis swallow noisily.

He’s about to suggest they go for round three when his phone vibrates, and with one last, hard suck, he pulls Louis’ finger out of his mouth with a _pop_. Louis grunts and Harry winks at him before answering the call.

“Hi, Mum,” he says. “Yes, we’re good. Yes, the wedding was good. I’ll be sure to give Niall your love— Yes, of course I told him yesterday, I just meant _again_ before we left— No, I’m not talking back…” Louis snorts, not even pretending he’s not listening in, and Harry pantomimes banging his head against the wall, and then louder, when Harry misjudges the angle and accidentally ends up hitting his head for real. He yelps into the phone, and winces when his mother asks what happened.

“Nothing,” he replies quickly, and then hurries to change the subject. “So, we should be there around 5 tomorrow evening. Yes, I’m sure it’s tomorrow. Yes, I double checked the flight information. Don’t worry, I’ll check it again a few times before we leave. I’ll call you if there’s any changes, Mum, I’ve got to go now, though. Can I talk to Beau first? Oh, right, time differences.”

 

Louis mouths _time differences_? and Harry mouths back _she’s asleep_.

Right, he thinks, time differences. Which would explain Lottie’s annoyance at the text message he sent her ten minutes ago. Whoops.

Harry finally hangs up, and Louis surges forward to kiss him on the lips.

“What was that for?” he asks, and Louis shrugs; he doesn’t really know, he just knows that ever since he kissed Harry yesterday it’s like a floodgate has been opened, and all he wants to do is kiss him more. All the time, preferably. Stopping to breathe? Overrated. Chapped lips? Worth it. Harry’s blunt fingernails scratching at his scalp as he tangles his fingers in Louis’ hair? Fucking perfection.

Louis is having the _best morning._ And it’s only getting better, apparently, as Harry tosses his phone to the edge of the bed and crawls down Louis’ body to repeat what he was doing to Louis’ finger before their interruption on a very different piece of anatomy.

(Honestly, just the best.)

* * *

Louis’ stumbling his way to the bathroom after waking up from their unintended nap when he sees it.

It’s the largest bathtub Louis’ seen in his life. He’s never been one for baths - the idea of essentially soaking in your own filth just never sat right with him - but one look at this giant tub and he knows what he wants to do today. Louis hopes Harry doesn’t share his aversion to baths, because now getting him in there is all Louis can think about - a wet, naked, soaped up Harry in between his legs - and he practically trips over his own feet in his haste to fetch Harry.

Harry’s on his phone when Louis launches himself onto the mattress next to him, jostling Harry enough that he nearly drops the device.

“Hello to you too,” he laughs. “What’s got you so eager?”

Louis’ gone a bit breathless now, because wow he wants this. “Have you seen the bath?”

“Yes…?”

“The really, really big bath.”

“I noticed.”

“The bath that’s potentially large enough to fit two grown men.”

“Are you dropping hints or something?”

“Of course not, I’m merely pointing out that there is a large tub in the bathroom that we could both fit into. It was just an observation.”

“Jacuzzi,” Harry corrects. “It’s a jacuzzi.”

“To-may-to, To-mah-to; Tub, Jacuzzi - I don’t give a fuck what it is, as long as we can fuck in it.”

Harry’s eyes go wide then. “Oh,” he breathes. “ _Oh_.”

“Do you want that?” he asks, and Harry nods quickly. “Okay,” Louis says. “Okay.” He tries to mask the thrill that goes up his spine at the thought, and fails.

He rises from the bed before Harry can say anything. “I’ll go run us a bath then.”

 

Harry watches as Louis walks away, mouth going dry at the sight of Louis’ bum jiggling with every step. _Christ_. Harry feels like the luckiest man alive right now, because he gets to admire that bum, touch it, even.

Louis’ going to be the death of him.

“Why did I think I could keep up with a 22-year-old?” he mutters to himself.

“What was that?” Louis calls from the bathroom. “I can’t hear properly over the water!”

“Nothing,” Harry calls back, and winces because he’s sure that was loud enough to be heard through the walls. Then again, so were all his other noises - a fact that should embarrass Harry, and probably would if he wasn’t leaving that night. Or if he planned to leave this room before he absolutely had to. Or if Louis hadn’t walked out of the bathroom with nothing on, cock bobbing before him as he grins cheekily.

Louis’ _absolutely_ going to be the death of him.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he tells, and Louis’ grins quickly transforms into a smirk.

“That’s the plan, sweetheart.”

Harry’s stomach swoops dangerously at the endearment, and he doesn’t resist when Louis takes him by the elbow and guides him into the bathroom. They link hands, fingers intertwining and Louis _squeezes_ , pulls just enough that Harry’s forced to bend over slightly, and then Louis’ breathing hotly against the shell of his ear.

“You’re always taking care of everyone else,” he whispers into it, making Harry shiver, with need, “but who takes you care of you?”

When he receives no answer, Louis takes lifts Harry’s hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to the inside of his wrist. “Let me take care of you, yeah? Is that okay? Is that something you’d like?”

Harry nods, too overwhelmed to get anything actually resembling words out as he allows Louis to guide him into the large tub. Louis climbs in behind him and moves to lean against the side. He spreads his legs in a ‘v’ and Harry crawls in between them, sighing as he leans back against the hard planes of Louis’ chest. They’re still for a moment, Harry soaking in the warmth and affection and something new he can’t quite identify, and Louis slowly moving the palm that was resting against Harry’s lower belly up and down. He goes lower and lower each time, and once his pinkie begins lightly brushing against the top of Harry’s pubes, he can’t take it anymore.

“ _Louis_ ,” he pleads. “ _Lou_.”

Louis doesn’t even tease him about his desperation, just murmurs soothing words as he wraps his hand around Harry’s cock. His other arm comes up to rest across Harry’s chest, and Harry lets out a contented sigh. This is the first time he’s felt this relaxed while being touched like this, and he could honestly get used to it, even if he’s at risk of melting into a puddle and disappearing down the drain along with the rest of the pink glittery water.

His abs twitch when Louis begins stroking, and he whimpers as a steady pace is established, with Louis swiping his thumb over the head every so often. Harry gives up trying to figure out a pattern, just lies back and lets it happen, toes curling in pleasure every time the rough pad of Louis’ thumb brushes across his slit.

“You feel so good,” Louis tells him, “You’re doing so well, feel so good in my hand.”

Harry whimpers as Louis tightens his grip, while simultaneously bringing the hand that’s been crossed over his body down to cup his balls tenderly, rolling them in his hand until Harry’s throwing his head back and squeezing his eyes shut in pleasure.

“That’s it, love, just relax, just let me take care of you like you need. You needed this so badly, didn’t you?”

He hopes his soft grunt is enough of an affirmation to spur Louis on, and it must be, because now he’s working Harry with two hands, one still cradling his balls and one playing with the head of his cock, moving the foreskin up and down the tip while Harry shakes against him. He’s acutely aware that he’s not going to last much longer - he’d be embarrassed if it was anyone but Louis, but despite the fact that Louis takes every opportunity to take the piss, Harry is confident that this is one thing Louis won’t tease him about.

Speaking of teasing, Louis is doing just that. Both his hands have ceased moving, and Harry whines in displeasure. “Don’t stop,” he pleads.

Louis presses a series of gentle kisses from the side of Harry’s neck to his shoulder, and back again. “I want to make this last,” he whispers against Harry’s shoulder blade, and Harry’s desperate for him to fucking _do something_ , but he also wants this to last longer, so he waits.

And waits.

He’s about to open his mouth and complain when Louis’ hands resume their previous activities. Except this time he’s squeezing tighter, stroking faster, and one of the fingers on the hand holding Harry’s balls keeps travelling closer and closer to his hole. Harry whines and stiffens, because he’s sore, and doesn’t particularly want to be touched there, but Louis must sense this because he doesn’t continue his hesitant exploration.

Harry’s close again, desperate to come, and when he voices this to Louis, the other man quickens the pace of his strokes once more, and brings his other hand back up to Harry’s chest, tweaking one of his nipples roughly until Harry’s spilling into his hand with a series of low groans.

It should be grosser - the sight of his own come mixing with the bubbles floating on top of the warm water, but he’s too blissed out at the moment to care. He relaxes against Louis’ chest, breathing deep and feeling content until something pokes at his lower back.

He turns to the left a bit, and reaches behind himself for Louis’ cock, pouting when Louis pushes the proffered hand away. “This was about you,” he chides. “You don’t need to worry about getting me off; I’m fine, honest.”

“At least come on me then,” Harry tries, “on my face, my chest, I don’t care, just… Come on me? Please?”

“Fucking _hell_ , Haz, you’re going to be the death of me.”

“Sorry,” Harry says, even though he’s not very sorry at all, and he looks up at Louis with what he hopes is an enticing expression. “Will you do it?”

 

Louis nods dumbly, and presses a kiss to the top of Harry’s head as he climbs out of the bath. He’s about to ask Harry to scoot closer, to tilt his head back, but he doesn’t need to, because Harry’s already done that before Louis can even properly get a hand on himself.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he swears softly. “ _Fuck_ , you’re so bloody perfect; fucking gorgeous, you are. Just…” He gasps as his fingertips skim across the underside of his cock, “beautiful.”

Harry’s gone a bit pink, the flush spreading from his cheeks down to his chest, drawing Louis’ attention back to his nipples, still a bit puffy and red from this morning. If Harry wasn’t so adamant about Louis coming on his face, Louis would do it there - paint the birds adorning Harry’s collarbones with streaks of white; claim him.

That thought is enough to bring Louis right to the edge, and with one final harsh tug, he’s coming, spilling into Harry’s eager, open mouth. Harry does his best to catch it all, but some bits still manage to escape his tongue, and Louis has to close his eyes because the sight is _too much_. Mortals should not be able to see this, he thinks. An ordinary person was not designed to survive the sight of Harry on his knees without Louis’ come on his face. But, somehow, Louis manages.

(Only barely.)

Getting a boneless Harry out of the tub proves to be a Herculean effort, so Louis just gives up and waits until Harry’s breathing normally again to toss a balled up flannel at him.

“You have to get out on your own, you fucking giant,” he says, and Harry smirks.

“Giant, huh?”

“I wasn’t referring to _that_ , you pervert.”

“Can you really call me a pervert so soon after sex?”

“Well, I just did, so… ”

“So?”

“So.”

“I really liked that,” Harry tells him, changing the subject, voice clear and honest and driving Louis mad with his easy candour. “No one’s ever done that for me before.”

“You’ve had crap sexual partners then,” Louis sniffs.

“Yeah, kinda.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“Maybe,” he says, “but you’re doing a pretty good job making up for it.” Louis goes a bit pink at that, and before Harry can tease him for it, he’s surging forward and capturing Harry’s mouth with his once more. Harry is quick to respond, his nails scratching lightly at Louis’ back as he feels himself being pulled closer until his body is flush against Harry’s. Harry worms a hand between them and wraps his fingers around both of their cocks, stroking quickly as he leans down and bites at Louis’ neck. He’d been sure Harry would be done for the day after their third round, but apparently he’d been wrong.

Making up for lost time indeed.

* * *

Harry bids his goodbye to the city with his nails biting into Louis’ waist, the other man’s hands leaving behind prints on the window as he works to remain upright while Harry fucks between his thighs. The sun has long since set, but the scene below seems to glow brighter in the night time. Or maybe everything’s just brighter now, ever since Louis kissed him last night; ever since Harry got his way.

“Look at that view; it’s beautiful,” Louis murmurs softly, and Harry hums his agreement, though the sight of his cock disappearing between Louis’ legs is far more appealing at the moment.

“We should - _fuck_ , _Haz, that feels so good_ \- come back here - _unh_ , _yes_ , _right there_ \- sometime.”

Louis implying that he wants to travel with Harry sometime - sometime in the future, like they could have a _future_ \- shouldn’t be what makes him come then, but it _is_ , and it’s embarrassing but also wonderful because _Louis sees a future with him_.

He rides out the aftershocks of his orgasm by biting at the spot where Louis’ neck meets his shoulder, and once he’s coherent enough, he drops to his knees and turns Louis around roughly until his bare back and bum are pressed against the cool glass of the window, making Louis gasp.

He looks up then, revelling in the sight of the thoroughly debauched man above him before opening his mouth in silent invitation. Louis whines and tenderly cups the back of Harry’s head as he feeds him his cock, and Harry takes it and takes it until his nose is buried in the rough patch of auburn on Louis’ groin. There’s a loud _thunk_ as the back of Louis’ head hits the glass, and Harry takes that as his cue to move, bobbing slowly until Louis collects himself and holds Harry’s head still, thrusting into his mouth shallowly, and it’s _not enough_ , but it’s what Louis’ giving him, so he’ll take it.

He’ll take anything Louis offers at this point, really, and he’s never been more grateful to have a cock down his throat so he doesn’t have to analyse just exactly what that means, and what the events of this weekend mean for Harry and Louis’ future.

No, he doesn’t think about that, just focuses on the easy slide of Louis’ cockhead across his tongue, on the noises he’s making that grow louder whenever Harry hollows his cheeks and _sucks_ , and on the way Louis’ fingers feel when they’re buried deep in Harry’s curls, on the swell of pride he feels whenever he’s able to take Louis all the way down. It’s an excellent distraction, really.

(Later, in the shower, he learns it’s just as good the other way around. And also that Louis can hold his breath for a surprisingly long time.)

(These events are not unrelated.)

* * *

Packing for the trip home proves to be even more difficult, as they’d both gone a bit overboard with the gift-buying - as well as shopping in general. Eventually, they’d sorted everything without Harry going out and buying another suitcase - mostly because Louis refused to let him do that.

Harry’s still just as nervous about flying, so Louis holds his hand during take off again, but this time, when their plane finishes its ascent, Harry doesn’t drop Louis’ hand. Louis likes it more than he’d like to admit.

This is a problem for several reasons.

It’s so distracting that he misses most of the plane ride - Harry’d fallen asleep quickly, meaning Louis could have taken his hand back at any time, he just… Hadn’t wanted to.

This is a problem for several reasons, and Louis plans to ignore all of them.

* * *

It’s hard to miss Beau in a crowd of people, even as small as she is, and especially today when she’s dressed in all of her favourites: a rainbow-striped top, a bright pink tutu, and sparkly red mary janes with a pair of glittery tights and rhinestone studded cat-eye specs to complete the look. Well, that, and the fact that she’s jumping up and down and shouting for him. And Louis.

Well, that’s new.

It’s not that he isn’t aware that Beau adores Louis, he just wasn’t aware of it until the moment his daughter expressed an equal amount of excitement over seeing each of them return home. It isn’t even a bad thing, really, just new. Just something that hadn’t occurred to him, that he suspects he’s actually been avoiding the topic of - like right now, as he switches all of his attention to his daughter who’s just launched herself at him. He manages to catch her without making them both fall over - it’s happened before - and she smacks a wet kiss to his cheek.

“I missed you, Daddy,” she cries, and Harry’s prepared for a second hug, only it doesn’t come because Beau wriggles out of his hold and flings herself at Louis next.

“Lou! I missed you too!”

Louis returns her embrace, and then with a glance and a grin in Harry’s direction, opens his arms in an invitation. Harry accepts, and Harry feels warm all over as he’s held close by his favourite people.

He faintly registers the sound of a camera shutter, and his flinches, his blood going cold, until he realises it’s only his mum documenting the moment.

“This one’s a keeper,” she laughs, and continues to snap photos even once Beau and Louis start a contest to see who can make the most ridiculous faces. (Louis lets her win, of course.)

Harry is so incredibly gone for him.

This is a problem for several reasons. Only, as he watches Beau chattering to Louis, filling him in on all the Year Four drama he’d missed while in Toronto, Harry can’t remember a single one.

  
* * *

The first time it happens, they’re standing in Harry’s bathroom, shaving side by side. Well, Louis’ shaving. Harry’s lying to himself - he doesn’t have to do this nearly as often as Louis, can’t even grow a proper beard, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to give up this easy domesticity they’ve somehow fallen into after Toronto.

This isn’t the first time they’ve shaved together; the morning after the wedding, Harry watched Louis prepare his kit with fascination, as he’d never had to put that much effort into maintenance before. And then, once he figured out Louis was about to shave his face bare, he’d quickly put a stop to it, insisting that he didn’t mind the beard burn on the inside of his thighs. (He stopped himself from admitting exactly how much he didn’t mind it, but only barely.)

So, the first time it happens - that Harry realises they resemble an actual, proper couple - he’s scared for all of two seconds before it hits him; he wants this. He’s wanted this, really, for a while now. And, finally, he’s got it. He’s got Louis.

No, that’s not right, that’s not how he sees it. It’s… He’s… Louis isn’t _his_ , obviously - Harry’s sure anyone who tried to claim him as such would not leave with his bollocks intact - but he’s got a part of Louis he didn’t have the privilege to see before, and he’s happy. Fucking hell, he’s so happy. So happy, in fact, that it’s distracting, and he yelps as his nicks his chin.

Louis looks over, face still half-covered in lather and brow furrowed.

“You okay?”

Harry shakes his head, but Louis just frowns and brings his thumbs up to wipe away the tiny drop of blood welling up from the cut.

“You know you don’t have to do this with me, right? Save your babyface the trouble.”

He flushes, because although the nature of their relationship may have changed, he’s still embarrassed to tell Louis he’s only shaving so he has an excuse to be next to him right now. He’s embarrassed; doesn’t want to admit it, but that doesn’t stop his traitor of a mouth to open and say, “I wanted to be next to you.”

“Right,” Louis says, unfazed, “and I’m saying you don’t need to make excuses to do that.”

“Well… Yeah, okay.” Harry doesn’t know where to go from here, so he just resumes his task, working hard not to let his mind wander again, which proves difficult as he can feel Louis’ body warmth radiating off of him - if he didn’t know any better, he’d say Louis’ moved closer since their conversation began. Somehow, he manages to finish without any more cuts, and he goes from there to pretending like he’s not watching Louis.

“I can feel you staring,” Louis informs him, only it comes out odd, because Louis’ got his mouth open, cheeks taut as he works to clean up the edges of his beard.

“I’m not staring,” Harry scoffs. “I’m not even looking at you.”

Louis rolls his eyes, but doesn’t call him out again, and Harry takes that as permission to continue staring. Louis doesn’t seem to mind, if the pinkness of his cheeks is any indication, and Harry feels a little thrill at the fact that he’s not the only one affected by this.

This time, when he leaves to wake Beau, the kiss he presses to Louis’ lips is deliberate, as is the pat on the bum Louis gives him in return. It’s nice, he thinks. This is nice. Nicer than nice, actually.

It’s pretty fucking brilliant.

* * *

The next time it happens, Harry’s sat in his bed, unable to fall asleep because he’s alone. He’d been tempted to join Louis, but stopped himself, resigning himself to a night of no rest when his bedroom door was pushed open and Louis stepped inside. Neither of them say anything as Harry scoots to his preferred side of the bed, making room for Louis climb in and taking his position as the little spoon as soon as Louis is comfortable.

It’s still brilliant.

* * *

Everything’s different now, but it’s different in the absolute best way possible. Louis doesn’t think he could go back to the way they were before Toronto, but judging by Harry’s equal satisfaction at their new arrangement, Louis feels certain that he has nothing to worry about.

Last night isn’t the first time they’ve ever shared a bed, but it was their first time sharing _Harry’s bed_ , and that’s different. That’s _really_ different. Louis hadn’t started out his night there, hadn’t even really intended to do it, but after unsuccessfully being able to fall asleep, and trying to shut the voice up that was telling him _why_ he was having trouble, Louis gave up and headed to Harry’s room, where he found the other man sitting up in bed.

“Oh,” Harry had breathed. “I was just… I was just about to go see you.”

“How convenient,” Louis had smirked, putting on a sarcastic front to hide just how pleased he was. “I’ve saved you so much trouble.”

They didn’t speak after that; Louis had just watched as Harry scooted back under the duvet and turned it down on the other side as an invitation that Louis gladly accepted, not even pretending it was unwanted. The time for games had passed, they were both all in now, and Louis planned to reap the rewards. Preferably while curled up on Harry’s European King with the other man’s head resting on his chest.

Speaking of that, Harry had become particularly obsessed with his chest lately, ever since that day at the pool when he’d told Louis about his tattoos, and Louis had admitted that while he wasn’t a huge fan himself, he could potentially be persuaded if the right person asked. (He didn’t know if Harry was that person yet, but he had a feeling he’d find out soon.)

He’d been woken up this morning by Harry softly tracing letters on his chest with a gentle finger. It had tickled a bit, but mostly Louis was just confused until Harry told him about the dream he’d had.

“You had a tattoo here,” he’d said. “I liked it; I almost forgot it wasn’t real.”

“What’re you saying, Haz?” Louis had laughed. “I should get a tattoo?” He’d laughed again when Harry has stuttered out an answer, and he’d spent most of the morning leading up to their bathroom routine poking fun at Harry’s newly discovered kink.

(‘It’s not a kink!’ he’d insisted, but Louis knew better.)

With Harry gone from the room, Louis’ got no one too look at but himself, and he finds himself checking out his chest, squinting at the area Harry had paid so much attention to. He tries to picture it, the script across his collarbones spelling out ‘it is what it is’ - a powerful statement that he can’t get out of his head now.

It is what it is.

He’s tempted to press Harry for more details about the dream - does he know the details? Why did dream-Louis get this? Why this particular phrase? Why so prominent, like a constant reminder; an affirmation?

_It is what it is_.

The words stick with him for the rest of the day, and he’s got plans to bring it up to Harry when he gets home from work tonight, but he forgets everything he was even thinking about when he walks in the door to see Harry standing in the front hallway in nothing but his pants, looking nervously at him from under his lashes.

Louis chokes on air, and Harry rushes forward to rub his back soothingly.

“Hello there,” he says once he’s regained the ability to breathe. “Where are your clothes?”

Harry bites his lip. “I thought we could do something that, er… That didn’t require clothes.”

“Really?” Louis looks him up and down appraisingly. “What’s that, then? Are you taking me skinny dipping or something? Bit cold for that, don’t you think?”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“Do I?” He arches a playful eyebrow and chuckles softly at the expression on Harry’s face. “Has anyone ever told you that you look like a grumpy kitten when you’re annoyed?”

“They have, actually,” Harry replies. “I’ve also been told it’s very endearing.”

“That it is, darling,” Louis says. “That it is.” He moves farther into the entryway, not missing the hitch in Harry’s breath when his fingers toy with the hem of his shirt. He raises it playfully, revealing a sliver of his stomach that’s got Harry chewing on his lip and staring hungrily.

He can’t help the way his hips start to sway as he walks forward, dragging his hands from the waistband of his jeans up his stomach, past his chest until he’s gripping loosely at the lapels of his blazer. He’s just about to slip it off when Harry growls low in his throat.

“No,” he says. “I want to do that.”

Louis smirks. “C’mere then.”

Harry wastes no time then, stepping forward quickly and pawing at Louis’ shoulders until he finally manages to remove the garment. It falls to the floor, and Louis is about to kick it to the side when he registers the absence of Harry’s hands on him. He’s not sure at what point he shut his eyes, but he opens them now to find Harry crouching low to retrieve the blazer from the ground.

“Really?”

“Yes,” Harry says, going to hang it on the coat tree, “really.”

“God,” Louis laughs, “you’re such a Dad.”

He waggles his eyebrows. “Oh, I am, am I? Does that turn you on, _Lewis_?”

Louis laughs louder then, so terribly endeared by the ridiculous man in front of him. “Sorry to disappoint, love,” he says, “but no; just doesn’t do it for me.”

“Oh, thank God,” Harry replies, “that would have been awkward.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean, I could’ve probably learned to work with it if you really wanted to, but—”

“Hold on,” Louis interrupts. “I just want to make sure I’m understanding you correctly. Are you saying that if I had a Daddy kink you’d… You’d indulge it?”

Harry shrugs. “Maybe?”

“Jesus, Haz, your daughter calls you that.”

“Okay, I see your point. I’m just saying, whatever you’re into, I’m up for it.”

“That’s an awfully dangerous declaration to make,” Louis says, and Harry locks eyes with him. The mood in the room changes then, the sexually charged air that was present when Louis first arrived home is back, and he barely has any time to react before Harry is yanking his shirt over his head. He barely registers anything else after that, much too distracted by the sight of a desperate Harry in front of him and all the promises that entailed. There’s a thought nagging at the back of his mind, and he realises what it is when he catches sight of the hallway clock.

“Where’s Beau?”

“Oh,” Harry says, “she’s at a mate’s house - they’re having a sleepover tonight. Which means you and I,” he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his pants, “have the evening to ourselves.” He pulls them all the way down, turning his back to Louis and shaking his bum invitingly as he steps out of them. “I thought we could do the thing you promised you’d do that we didn’t have time to do in Toronto.”

Louis’ throat goes dry; there’s no way he’s that lucky - this is a trick the universe is playing. It’s a dream, and any minute he’s going to wake up, still sitting in his cube at work. Still… Still, it’s worth an investigation - just in case he’s wrong, of course. “Are you really that desperate to get your arse eaten that you broke your ‘no sleepovers on school nights’ rule?”

Harry shakes his head, then nods, then shakes his head again. “Yes, ’m desperate, but no, I didn’t break anything; Christmas holidays started today.”

“Oh,” he says dumbly, because he should’ve known, considering soccer school follows the same schedules, and it’s just wrapped up for the session. His own holiday doesn’t begin until the 21st, as he’d used up all of his remaining leave days - along with a few sick ones - to attend the wedding. “How long have you been planning this?”

“I don’t want to say.”

“C’mon, Haz, you can tell me.”

“Erm—” Harry clears his throat and looks at Louis sheepishly. “Since I figured out we didn’t have time before leaving Toronto?”

“Fucking _hell_.”

“Is that… Is that bad?”

“No… Oh, _fuck_ , no - it’s so hot, oh my fucking _God_ , Harry. Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

“I’m starting to get an idea,” Harry giggles, and, Christ, nothing will ever fully prepare him for the sight of a naked Harry Styles in front of him. He doesn’t think of Harry as Harry Styles anymore, except for moments like now, when it _hits_ him, like a blow to the chest. _Harry Styles is begging you to eat his arse_ , his brain reminds him, and Louis runs the risk of melting into a puddle right then and there. He feels like he might die - and honestly, he’d be okay with it. Lightning could strike him right now and he’d be satisfied with his last Earth memory being this one.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” he hears then, but the voice is moving away, echoing against the walls of the hallway as Harry scampers in the direction of his bedroom. Wasting no time, Louis follows after him, shoving down his own jeans and pants and nearly braining himself on the wall when his foot gets caught in his jeans and he falls forward.

“Lou?” Harry calls from upstairs, “are you coming?” And then a giggle, because Harry’s got a dirty mind like that.

Louis takes the stairs two at a time, a risk considering how clumsy he seems to be today, and somehow makes it to the doorway of Harry’s bedroom in one piece.

“Holy shit,” he groans. “You’re actually trying to kill me, aren’t you?”

 

Despite the fact that Harry can’t see Louis’ face at the moment due to the fact that his own is pressed sideways into his pillow, he knows exactly what expression is adorning his face. He’s familiar with all of Louis’ expressions at this point, and the thought of him looking at Harry with the lustful eyes he’s become so used to sends a thrill of desire down his spine.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he says, working to keep his voice casual, and failing when it cracks on the last word. He shifts his knee on the mattress, causing one of his hands to slip, and he quickly fixes it sto that he’s got one on each cheek, spreading himself for Louis. He feels a bit obscene like that, which turns him on more than he expected it to.

Louis’ steps are so light - like a cat, really - that Harry’s isn’t expecting the dip in the mattress, the hands knocking his own away and kneading the flesh harshly, Louis’ hard grip making him whine.

“Please,” he gasps, once, and that’s all that’s necessary because he’s barely got the word out when Louis’ tongue swipes over his hole. If he wasn’t already nearly flat on the bed, he’s pretty sure his arms would have collapsed at this point. Louis’ not taking it slow, not bothering to tease or slow down to let Harry catch his breath, and he’s burying his face between Harry’s cheeks and licking messily there. He jumps as one of Louis’ sharp teeth grazes his rim, and Louis stops then, to apologize, Harry suspects, but he wants none of that, so he reaches back, tangles his fingers in Louis’ soft hair - the part where it’s longest, the part he can _tug_ and pulls his face forward until it’s flush against his arse again.

“ _Don’t stop_ ,” he begs, and cries out as Louis resumes licking at him. The soft slurping noises and saliva dripping down to his balls has him practically vibrating, every muscle in his body tight with anticipation of what’s to come. He snorts then, because he can appreciate a good pun as much as the next individual, and in the next second he’s grunting obscenely as Louis begins licking harder, faster, dipping the tip of his tongue into Harry’s hole with increasing frequency, going deeper and deeper until Harry just can’t anymore, and comes on his bedspread. It’s sticky against his abdomen; he’s shocked at first that he was able to come untouched until he realises he’d been grinding against the bed the entire time and he’d been too distracted by the feeling of Louis’ tongue that he hasn’t even noticed.

“Bloody hell,” he breathes. “Bloody fucking _hell_ , Louis. How are you real?”

He turns to look behind him, not really expecting an answer, and _definitely_ not expecting to whimper involuntarily at the sight of Louis wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The same mouth that had been buried in Harry’s arse not seconds before.

“Bloody hell,” he repeats, because he doesn’t need Louis’ confirmation to know that he _isn’t_ real, that he’s something Harry dreamed up, something straight out of his dirtiest fantasies; his Dream Man - literally.

Louis pinches him. “I’m very much real,” he says. “Or do you really think yourself capable of dreaming up such an excellent rimjob?”

“Awfully presumptuous of you to assume it was excellent,” Harry says, and the look Louis gives him reminds him that yes it really was excellent. And that he’s perfectly aware of just how much it had managed to affect Harry.

“I guess we’re even then,” Louis says as he goes to climb off the bed. “Tit for a tat, and all that.”

“Wait!” Harry cries out, and it comes out more panicked than intended but this is important. “Are you saying you don’t want to do this again?”

Louis’ shoulders are shaking, and then he’s _laughing_ , and Harry wants to be cross but he’s also really fucking tired, and wants Louis to come back to bed, to come hold him until he comes down from this high.

“So it was really that good, then?” he asks, and Harry nods eagerly, making Louis laugh just that much harder. “Okay,” he says next. “Okay, then I suppose we can do it again.”

Harry smiles then, and he’s about to ask Louis to join him for a cuddle when Louis surprises him by crawlings quickly across the mattress and affixing himself to Harry’s back. He presses a series of kisses against the skin, and Harry shivers, sure that if he was younger he’d be getting hard again. Speaking of being younger…

“Why aren’t you hard anymore?”

“Er…” Louis starts, and he sounds flustered. “I… I might have gotten meself off against your bed. Sorry,” he tacks on at the end, and Harry snorts.

“So you liked it too?”

“Shut up.”

“Not until you admit how much you liked it.”

Louis grinds his now soft cock against the swell of Harry’s bum. “Isn’t that enough of an answer?”

“Nope, I want to hear you say it.”

“Never,” Louis insists, and Harry gives up then, because, _shit_ , he really is exhausted. He’s quiet for long enough that he suspects Louis thinks he’s fallen asleep, because he drags his lips from Harry’s shoulder to the spot behind his ear, which he kisses once - quick - before whispering “That was bloody _brilliant_ , Hazza.”

Harry works to keep his breathing even and his mouth relaxed, fighting hard against the grin that’s threatening to stretch across his face. He fails though, lets out a little sigh of contentment as well, and Louis huffs.

“You’re not asleep, are you?”

“Nope,” Harry sing-songs back, and Louis groans, the sound tickling at the back of Harry’s neck. He shivers, and presses his bum against Louis’ crotch, presses his back into his chest, reaches back and tugs Louis’ arm until it’s wrapped around him, and snuggles his face into his pillow.

“Go to sleep, Harold,” Louis says, kissing the back of his neck one last time. It’s one of the best things Harry’s felt in a long time; he wants to do it again, but Louis wants him to sleep first, hopefully with the intention of doing more once they’re adequately rested - they only have an empty house for so long, after all - and Louis wants him to sleep.

So that’s exactly what he does.

* * *

Louis hadn't meant to confess about the leavevacation days and the sick days, but Harry managed to drag it out of him as usual - he can’t keep things from Harry anymore, which he supposes is a good thing, as couples should be able to communicate like they do, and…

Wait.

Are they a couple now? Like, they fuck, they kiss, they cuddle and watch movies and go on what Louis’ been considering dates, and Louis’ been enjoying all of those activities too much that he forgot to ask Harry what they are to each other now. He wants… He—

Shit.

Louis knows what he’d like them to be, he’s just…

He’s just not ready to admit it out loud. Which is fine. He’s got time. Plus, Harry seems too distracted lately for a relationship talk, and the last thing Louis wants is to make him even more stressed than he already looks.

Really, he’s just being polite.

Plus, the fact that he’s been one of the only employees in the office for the past week hasn’t exactly left him with much free time of his own. He feels like he’s barely seen Harry and Beau lately, and it’s taking a toll on him. Which is why, at the end of the day on Tuesday - Christmas Eve Eve - he finds himself rushing home, where he’s attacked with hugs (Beau) and kisses (Harry) and nearly falls over when Clifford comes running at him unexpectedly. Even Miss Kitty had joined in, winding around his ankles and meowing in a way to let him know she’s been extremely displeased by his actions.

It’d been a lovely homecoming, and he wished he’d been awake for more of it, but he’d been dead on his feet and passed out almost immediately after dinner. Right there at the table, embarrassingly enough. Harry had to carry him to bed.

It was all very sweet, actually. And it got even sweeter the next morning.

Louis hadn’t been expecting much of a birthday celebration - he’d figured that Harry would be too busy prepping for Christmas day to remember - but he’d been wrong.

It started the moment he woke up - well, before he woke up really, as when he gained consciousness he suddenly very aware of a warm, wet feeling on his cock. That combined with the moving lump under the covers were all the clues he needed to figure out what his first birthday surprise was. He lifted the covers to reveal Harry there, his lips wrapped around Louis’ cock, bobbing his head up and down slowly. Once he noticed that Louis was awake, however, he quickly increased the pace, sucking harder and sloppier than before.

He’d quickly thrown an arm over his mouth to muffle any noises Harry drew from him, which was only about half as effective as he’d hoped. Thanks to Harry, his toes were curling in pleasure already, and the sensation only grew more intense as Harry took Louis as deep as he could while simultaneously rubbing a dry fingertip over Louis’ hole. He hadn’t realised how close he was - Harry must have been down there for a while before he’d woken up - because in no time at all he was coming, hard, panting harshly into the curve of his elbow.

The next time he woke up - he hadn’t even realised he’d fallen back asleep - it was to an empty bed. Harry’s side of the bed was cold, and Louis was disappointed because he’d been looking forward to a good morning cuddle, but his disappointment disappeared the moment Harry came through the bedroom door carrying a tray piled high with all of Louis’ favourite foods.

He’d ended up getting that morning cuddle, as well as all the pancakes he could eat, and if that had been all Harry had planned, Louis would have been content.

But there was still more.

He hadn’t felt this spoiled since he was younger, when his mum would go all out for his birthday, making sure not to even mention that it was Christmas Eve in favour of making it Louis’ day. As a child, he’d just assumed that people lit up their houses in celebration of him, and his mother hadn’t corrected him for the longest time. He misses her often, especially at moments like this, but he knows she wouldn’t want him to dwell on those sad feelings, so he turns his attention back to the people surrounding him.

The three of them - Harry, Beau, and Louis - were meant to go to Harry’s mum’s house in the morning to celebrate Christmas, but Harry had declared tonight all about Louis. He’d prepared all of Louis’ favourite foods, and they’d just finished a lovely fajita dinner when Harry had excused himself from the table, returning moments later with a candle-lit cake in tow. Beau hopped up to turn off the lights, and Louis couldn’t keep the grin off his face as they sang to him - Harry in his warm baritone, and Beau in her off- key warble that Louis found incredibly endearing - which had all led up to this moment, a two- layer cake on the table in front of him, and two expectant faces waiting for him to blow out the candles.

Louis’ never been very good at wishing for things - he can never think of what he wants most on the fly - and Harry sing-songing “Make a wish!” leads to him stalling for time.

“Just don’t smash my face into the cake,” Louis warns, because that’s a valid concern (and because it buys him extra seconds to come up with a decent wish).

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Harry assures him quickly. “The last time someone did that to me, it turned out to be an ice cream cake; hurt my nose a lot.” He rubs at it subconsciously. “So we don’t do that here, you can relax.”

“Okay,” he replies, but still keeps one eye slightly open as he leans forward to blow out his candles - just in case. Harry doesn’t move a muscle, so he chances a glance away to quickly squeeze his eyes shut and make his wish.

“Also there’s fire,” Beau points out, and Louis snorts because of course that’s her observation, and he leans towards the cake.

He doesn’t know what to wish for at first - torn between wanting too much and not wanting much at all, so he goes for something stereotypical.

When he opens his eyes, Beau is staring at him expectantly. “What’d you wish for?” she asks, and Louis rolls his eyes, because his sisters have been doing the same thing for as long as he can remember.

“Can’t tell you, love, or else it won’t come true.”

She pouts. “Okay.” And then, “Can I guess it?”

“Nope.”

“Okay,” she repeats, and drops the subject because Harry’s started cutting the cake, which is infinitely more interesting, apparently.

They’re all digging into their slices with Harry leans in. “C’mon,” he whispers in Louis’ ear, tone bordering on teasing, “you can tell me.”

“Harold,” Louis answers, indigent, “are you trying to take my wish away from me? You know if I tell you it won’t come true.”

“You don’t know that.”

He scoffs. “I’m not willing to take that chance; why are you so curious, anyway?”

Harry shrugs. “Just am.”

“Well, stop it.”

Harry doesn’t ask again; Louis thinks this is the end of Harry’s birthday surprises until Harry returns from putting Beau to bed with a box under his arm. He looks over at Louis, who’s stretched out on the sofa next to Clifford who’s in a similar position - but taking up much more room, obviously - and laughs.

“You look comfortable, Birthday Boy.”

“I am,” Louis replies. “Wanna join?”

Harry does, tucking himself under Louis’ arm and wriggling until he gets comfortable. “I was going to give you both of the presents together,” he says, once he’s finally stopped moving, “but I figured you’d appreciate a separate birthday present. So, here.” He shoves a gold-papered box at Louis, who takes it gingerly and grins at his boyfriend.

“You didn’t have to,” he says, “I would have been okay to get both tomorrow.”

“Indulge me.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Okay, fine. But just this once.” He resists the urge to rip the paper off, because it’s wrapped so carefully that he almost doesn’t want to open it. Harry’s leaning forward, bouncing on his toes like he’s nervous, and Louis’ curiosity finally gets the best of him. He tears the paper the rest of the way, and finds a shoebox inside. He balances it on one hand and flips off the lid with the other, cackling when he sees what’s inside.

“You really do hate my slippers, don’t you?”

“Nooo,” Harry says, but his eyes flick to the right and Louis knows he’s lying.

“It’s fine,” Louis tells him. “I’ve been meaning to get a new pair anyway. It’s about time I trade the moose ones for…” He peeks inside the box again. “What are these supposed to be?”

“Hedgehogs.”

“Hedgehogs,” Louis echoes. “Right. Of course.”

“Because of that time I said you looked like a— ”

“Yes, I got it,” he says, and kicks his worn moose slippers away. One of them hits Harry in the leg, and Harry puts on a show like he’s been shot.

“Jesus, Louis,” he moans obnoxiously. “Be more careful next time. Learn to keep those powerful footballer legs in check, please.”

“Get up, you dork.”

“Just leave me here to die. And tell my mum I love her. Also Beau.” He finally collapses in a heap on a carpet with a faint, “Goodbye, cruel world,” before closing his eyes and letting his tongue loll out of his mouth.

“How are you older than me?”

Harry shrugs, and makes grabby hands up at Louis, who laughs and shakes his head. “Please?” he tries. “Please, Lou? ‘m so lonely down here.”

“Oh my God, _no_.”

“Is that any way to treat the dead?”

“Yes.”

“Wow, rude.”

“That’s me. Rude.”

“Well, come and be rude down here.”

“Ugh, fine. Only because you look so pathetic. And no funny business.”

“Who said anything about funny business? You’re the one who brought up—” Harry’s abruptly cut off when Louis crawls over and collapses onto his chest, capturing Harry’s mouth in a kiss that quite literally renders him speechless. Louis doesn’t have control for long, though; as soon as Harry collects himself, he flips the two of them over and they snog like teenagers until they can’t anymore, and Louis’ dragging Harry up the stairs to their room.

It’s the best birthday he’s had in a long time.

* * *

Christmas morning is just the three of them - they’ve got plans with Gemma and Anne this afternoon, and tonight they’re beginning the journey to Doncaster to spend Boxing Day with Louis’ family, but this morning is just for them.

Because Harry is a softie and therefore not in the least bit immune to puppy dog eyes - or kitten pouts - Clifford and Miss Kitty were the first to receive their presents, each now in their respective corners of the room playing with their new toys. Louis knows it’s only a matter of time because they try to steal from each other, and he hopes they at least wait until he’s opened his own presents. Or Harry’s opened his. Or Beau’s opening her own bloody mountain of clothes and toys.

“Open mine first,” Harry says, and Louis blinks twice, because while he figured Harry would get him a gift, he hadn’t been expecting anything quite so… Big. Or quite so gold.

“Is this a bloody dressing gown?” he asks once the papers off and the box is opened.

“Yeah, you told me that’s what you wanted.”

“Fuck’s sake, Haz, I was joking,” Louis snorts, and then notices the way Harry’s smile falters. He feels like a right tit, because it’s actually a really thoughtful gift, and Louis supposes it would be nice to have in the morning. He doesn’t hate it, doesn’t begrudge Harry’s occasional inability to pick up on his sarcasm, it was just a bit unexpected.

“Good thing I got a gift receipt,” Harry says, but the smile he shoots Louis’ way doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and Louis reaches out to quickly grab his hand.

“I don’t need a gift receipt, you nutter. I just didn’t expect you to actually get this, and — Hold up, is this Gucci?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh my God, you got me a Gucci bathrobe.”

“Technically, it’s a…”

Harry’s correction is interrupted by the sound of ripping paper, and they both turn to see Beau simultaneously tearing the wrapping off of two presents at once.

“Bo-bear? What are you doing?”

“Opening my presents,” she says, like it’s obvious. (It sort of is, really, but Harry’s a dad and therefore must ask these pointless questions, Louis assumes.)

“You know you don’t have to do it all at once, yeah?” Louis asks, and she rolls her eyes.

“I wanna see what they are right now.”

“They aren’t going anywhere, love,” Harry says, but she’s ignoring them now in favour of tearing into the rest of the pile. Louis manages to catch his eye and winks conspiratorially, earning himself an eye roll in return. Harry must still sense what Louis’ planning, though, because they both surge forward at the same time to tickle Beau’s sides, making her shriek and giggled and momentarily forget about the presents. But only momentarily, as the moment Harry and Louis stop, she picks it right back up like nothing happened, and Harry lets out a groan that Louis - with all his time spent caring for his younger siblings - is all too familiar with.

Beau’s just unwrapped the last present under the tree when Gemma and Anne show up, their part of the Christmas dinner in tow, and the rest of the day is spent eating and admiring gifts, and just generally basking in the warm holiday glow. Louis almost doesn’t want the day to end, that’s how nice it is.

Still, it eventually does, as all good things do, but he doesn’t mind so much, as Harry’s got one more surprise up his sleeve - something he absolutely could not give Louis in front of his family - that leaves Louis feeling boneless for hours afterwards.

It’s the perfect end to a perfect day, and Louis couldn’t be happier.

  
* * *

They spend a lovely Boxing Day in Doncaster. Louis’ sisters all adore Beau, and she basks in the attention. It’s quite lovely, actually, to see them all getting on so well.

Everyone’s sat in front of the fire; the older twins are on either side of Beau, each working diligently on plaiting her hair. Harry watches them work, absentmindedly running his fingers through Louis’ hair - who’s sat on the floor in front of him, in favour of cuddling the twins puppy before it ran off. Louis leans his head back against Harry’s knees, causing Harry’s hand to bury itself further into the silky strands, and Harry gets an idea.

“Don’t question this, please.”

He doesn’t, not even when Harry begins to gently tug at his hair, working the longer strands at the top into something resembling a plait.

“I think you look really pretty, Louis,” Beau tells him once Harry finishes.

“Thanks, love.”

“What do you think, ladies?” Harry asks. “Should I let Harold here do me hair every day?”

His question is met with a chorus of nooos, and Harry pretends to be offended. “I think I did a pretty good job,” he says, defensive now.

Louis fishes his phone from the pocket of his joggers and turns the front-facing camera on. He angles the phone, turning his head this way and that, squinting at the screen as he tries to get a good look at the tiny plaits now adorning the top of his head. “I suppose you could have done worse.”

Harry laughs and continues petting the top of Louis’ head, who makes a noise dangerously close to a purr before allowing Harry to help him up and onto his lap where he relaxes fully, back pressed to Harry’s chest. Harry finds himself wishing he could bottle up this moment, could save this warm domesticity for a rainy day, a day when he needs to be reminded just how lucky he is to have the life he has. In the end, he tells himself that he’ll be able to hold into the memory on his own, as well as make new, similar, and even better ones.

It hits him how close the year is to ending, and how that doesn’t faze him like it usually does. Because he’s certain enough about his future not to be afraid of what it holds. Especially if he’s got Louis by his side - or, in this case, in his lap. Because with Louis by his side, he feels like he can do anything, tackle anything. With Louis by his side, he feels almost invincible.

After so many months of dancing around each other - both literally and figuratively - Harry still can’t believe he gets to call Louis his, and nothing, absolutely _nothing_ , will get in the way of that. He guarantees it.

  
* * *

They spend the remainder of the break in Doncaster - from Boxing Day all the way to New Year’s Eve, where Louis’ got a standing invite to the party his friends throw every year. He brings Harry along, obviously, and Harry decides he wants to go the extra mile when it comes to winning over Louis’ friends, because he’s gone and baked a bloody cake to bring along as a host gift.

“Haz,” Louis says for what feeling like the hundredth time tonight, “you didn’t have to do this, you know that, right? Like, my friends will like you regardless, you don’t have to butter them up. Also, they aren’t PTA mums, or whoever you’d normally butter up that way; these are lads fresh out of uni and— Actually, you know what, maybe the cake was a good idea.”

“Of course it was.”

Louis just rolls his eyes and follows Harry inside, where they’re greeted warmly - if not a tad over-enthusiastically - and instructed to set up the cake on the kitchen counter along with the rest of the food. Harry smiles slightly as Louis not-so-secretly swipes his finger through the icing on the side and promptly stick it in his mouth, sucking harder than Harry assumes ( _hopes_ ) he would if Harry were not present.

“Shit, this is amazing,” he moans.

This perks Harry up. “Yeah?”

He nods fervently. “Why are you so bloody good at everything you try your hand at?” he complains. “Like, God, leave some talent for the rest of us mortals.”

“I used to be a baker,” Harry says, and Louis raises an eyebrow.

“Really?”

“Well, I ran the till mostly, but I watched the actual bakers a lot, and I’d try it myself at home. And I just… I do it a lot - I like to do it for people I care about.”

Louis has a terrible flashback to Harry’s eager face when he’d handed Louis the basket of muffins that would end up changing his life completely all those months ago, and his stomach turns. Luckily, Harry doesn’t seem to realise what he’s said because he just continues speaking like he hasn’t brought up any of their painful past.

“I actually considered opening a bakery once,” he tells Louis, who raises a curious eyebrow.

“Is that right?”

Harry nods. “I figured, why not? I’ve got the money and time.”

“What stopped you?”

“Gemma,” he says. “She talked me out of it, said that opening a bakery just for the sake of a pun was a fucking terrible idea.”

“Oh my God, Harold; why am I even surprised?”

“I’m glad I listened to her, really. I don’t think I would have enjoyed that life as much as I thought I would.”

“What was the pun?”

“Hmm?”

“The pun that you wanted to call the bakery.”

“Oh! Um… I was going to name it… ‘The Rolling Scones’?”

“Jesus, Hazza,” Louis groans loudly. “Are you kidding me?”

Harry shakes his head, and Louis snorts.

“I’ve got to wee, will you be okay on your own?”

Harry nods, “Yeah, I’ll just keep the cake company.”

“You can mingle, you know.”

“I’d rather wait until you’re back, if you don’t mind.”

“Suit yourself,” Louis shrugs, and walks off in the search of the loo.

 

Harry watches him melt into the crowd. While Louis’ away, several people come up to chat, and nearly everyone asks the same odd question. Harry figures there must be some reason for that, so the first thing he says once Louis’ returned is, “Why does everyone keep asking me if I eat carrots?”

“Oh, God,” Louis groans, dropping his head into his hands. “Why haven’t they let that _go_?”

“What is it? Is it a code for something rude?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then what? C’mon, Lou,” Harry whines, “don’t hold out on me.”

“Fine.” He sighs. “One time, in secondary school, someone asked me what kind of girls I liked so I panicked and said ‘I like girls who eat carrots,’ and the lads still won’t let me live it down.”

“But I’m not a girl.”

“Yes, love, I’m aware.”

“But I do like carrots.”

“Of course you do.”

“Especially yours.”

“Of course you do.” Harry’s giggling now, because Louis’ ridiculous, and he’s happy. He’s happy and this is fun, and tonight’s going to be so good. It’s going to be the best start to a year, especially since he’s here with Louis. It’s also been nice to spend this week meeting the people in Louis’ life, his family and his friends. His friends who are currently commanding the karaoke stage and entertaining the crowd with their terrible covers. Harry thinks it’s great.

He realises he hadn’t been able to properly catch any of their names at the start of the evening, so he leans over to ask Louis before the song begins, but Louis isn’t next to him anymore. In fact, Harry seems to have lost track of the other man completely. He’s about to get up and search when a song he’s heard far too many times in his 31 years on Earth starts playing.

Someone else has joined Louis’ friends on the makeshift stage, and even though their back is facing him, Harry would recognise that arse anywhere.

Louis appears to have shrugged off his blazer at some point during his journey, and Harry finally remembers why the t-shirt underneath looks so familiar. The last time Louis had worn it, they’d been in very different positions - now, instead of Harry attempting to woo Louis with ABBA, it’s Louis trying to… Well, Harry’s not quite sure what Louis is trying to do, but it involves the Spice Girls, his childhood friends, and an excessive amount of hip-thrusting.

It’s bloody brilliant.

He watches the entire performance with a grin that he’s worried errs too far on the side of lovesickness, and when Louis finishes, Harry hops up onto the ‘stage’ and hugs Louis hard enough to have him squeaking indignantly - even more so once Harry starts spinning him around.

“Sorry,” Harry says, breathless now, and judging from the way Louis’ smiling back at him, he’s not actually upset with Harry.

Instead, he just leans back in, brushes his lips teasingly against Harry’s ear, and whispers, “Just think of that as revenge,” which has Harry rolling his eyes, because it’s not really revenge if he liked it, now is it?

When he relays as much to Louis, he earns himself a glare and a swat, which really shouldn’t be endearing, but Harry’s become skilled in the art of catching Louis’ flying hands in his own, which is what he does next, because he wants Louis in his space, wants him close and it sucks that they’re in this crowded room, because Harry’d quite like to ravish his boyfriend now, thank you very much.

He’s not fully hard, not yet, but Louis must feel the insistent twitch of his cock against the thigh that’s pressed against his crotch, because Louis raises a judgemental eyebrow and smirks. “Did that get you hot? Me publicly embarrassing you?”

“I wasn’t embarrassed,” Harry insists, “I wasn’t, just— You look really good up on stage.”

Louis scoffs. “Hardly think this counts as a stage.” He punctuates his statement with a gentle kick to the wooden side, and Harry winces because he’s sure even the lightest impact could lead to a collapse. It doesn’t, though, and now he’s got Louis’ full attention back on him. And his little problem. Well, not little, exactly. At least not according to Louis…

Anyway.

It occurs to him that he never actually got the names of the lads accompanying Louis - or if he did, then it completely slipped his mind. So, despite the fact that he’s risking giving Louis more “old man Harold” material, he leans in to ask, “What are your friends called?”, shouting a bit to be heard over the noise of the party.

“What?” Louis replies, shouting back just as loud.

“Your friends! What are their names?”

“No, I haven’t seen any games.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “We’re going outside!”

“What?”

“Come on!”

Louis allows Harry to drag him outside with only minimal protest. The balcony is small, but the blessed quiet makes up for the cramped space. Harry slides the glass door shut behind them, further blocking the noise from inside, and turns to face Louis only to be greeted by the sight of his back. The way he’s leaning on the rail makes his arse stick out just enough to be tempting, but Harry manages to resist feeling up his boyfriend - or whatever they are now - as doing so while practically everyone he knows is inside is not the way to make a good impression, Harry knows.

Sometimes he wishes he didn’t care so much about first impressions. But then again, if he wasn’t such a ‘bloody people pleaser’, as Gemma so eloquently loves to put it, he wouldn’t be standing on this balcony staring at Louis’ arse.

He’s usually better at resisting this kind of temptation, but Louis’ managed to break down all of his walls; he’s responsible for Harry’s new lack of control over his libido - honestly, he hasn’t had to deal with poorly-timed boners in _years_. Then again, he’s never had to keep up with the sexual appetite of someone eight years his junior either.

It’s a fair trade-off, actually.

He’s so distracted by Louis’ arse that he doesn’t remember his question from before, but it probably isn’t important. (Hopefully.)

There’s a chorus of shouts muffled by the glass, but Harry still manages to pick up the sound of people chanting numbers. Louis appears to have noticed as well, because he turns around and treats Harry to a cheeky smile. “Ready to say goodbye to 2025?”

Harry nods, and Louis closes the space between them until the toes of his Vans meet Harry’s boots, forcing Harry to incline his head to maintain eye contact.

“They say the person you kiss at midnight is the person you’re going to spend the rest of the year with.”

Louis raises an eyebrow, cheeky smile still in place. “Is that right?”

“I’ve never kissed anyone at midnight,” he admits in lieu of an answer.

“You’re not missing much,” Louis replies. “It’s a bit overrated.”

“‘s this you saying you don’t wanna kiss me?”

“Of course not.” He reaches up then, wraps his arms around Harry’s neck and pulls him closer. Harry doesn’t give an inch, and Louis scowls as he’s forced to go up on his toes to reach the other man’s ear. “I’ll be your New Year’s kiss, baby,” he whispers, low and sultry and over-exaggerated.

“Then you’ll be stuck with me for an entire year.”

“I’m willing to take the risk.”

Any reply Harry attempts is interrupted when the noises inside shift - the countdown is nearing its end, the buzz is growing - and erupts with shouts of “Happy New Year!” Then Louis’ cupping his cheeks, pulling him down and capturing his mouth in a kiss that steals his words away. It starts off sweet, then quickly turns filthy until they’re full on snogging in full view of everyone.

Harry eventually breaks the kiss - not by choice; he can’t breathe - and rests his forehead against Louis’. “Now you’re stuck with me.”

“Huh,” Louis says, like this thought had never occurred to him, like it wasn’t his intention all along. “Huh,” he says again, “I suppose I am.”

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

They’ve been back home for four days when it first happens.

It’s been years since Harry’s flinched at the noise of a phone camera; he doesn’t know what’s different about this moment - maybe it’s the hushed conversation that comes after, maybe it’s the fact that the noise occurs six more times in rapid succession - but he needs to get out of this shop. Now.

Louis appears oblivious to Harry’s unease as he scans the cereal shelf for his favourite brand. “Can we get Coco Pops?” he asks, even though Harry says no each time. (Technically, Louis could get them, Harry just suspects he likes being difficult sometimes; likes having an excuse to throw a strop.)

“Sure,” Harry replies, only half paying attention at this point. If Louis hadn’t noticed his odd behaviour before, he sure as hell seemed to now.

“Haz? Everything okay?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. Just…” He inches closer, eyes darting around the aisle only to find that the small group with the phones has disappeared. “Just thought I heard something weird. It’s fine now, though. No reason to worry.”

“You just told me I could get Coco Pops without a bit of protest and you expect me to believe everything is fine?”

“It is,” Harry insists, but the words ring hollow even in his own ears.

Louis watches him warily for a few more seconds before reaching up and grabbing two boxes of the forbidden cereal. Harry frowns, but doesn’t stop him, even in the presence of Louis’ challenging eyebrow, the one that Harry knows means he’s intentionally trying to poke the bear. It seems to be his method for getting Harry to admit when things aren’t okay, but Harry’s learned that, knows how to avoid it. He turns away and walks down the rest of the aisle to fetch a box of his favourite porridge oats. Louis swears behind him, and Harry winces at the shrill squeak of the shopping trolley as Louis flings it around far too quickly to follow after him.

“Fucking hell, Haz,” he hears Louis mutter, and he closes his eyes. He’s being ridiculous, he knows, but the thought of any of that shit following him here, the one place he’s felt fully at peace, the place that is his, is nauseating. If he mentions any of that worry out loud, then it has the potential to become real.

He doesn’t fancy issuing a challenge to the universe today. Especially not when the universe has always seemed hell-bent on screwing him over. He doesn’t want to leave, not now, not after he’s finally found a place for Beau. Not after he’s finally found Louis. He scowls at the spot where the people had been standing moments before. Bloody hell, hadn’t those people taken enough from him? At this point, he doesn’t care if they were actually taking pictures - he really is most likely imagining things - but the memories that his fear brings up are enough to put him in a sour mood for the rest of the shopping trip.

He feels Louis’ eyes on him the entire time, and he must see something worrying there, because not only does he get everything on Harry’s list - and only things on the list - but he also puts back the Coco Pops. Both boxes.

Curse him for being so perceptive. Curse himself for being such an open book. Curse his past for making him like this. Paranoid, worried every day that his peace could be shattered at any moment. It’s the reason they moved around so often when Beau was young; every time Harry started to feel like someone recognised him, even a little bit, he’d flee.

Beau had never asked why, but he knows that she’s old enough now to notice something’s up. He’d rather not have to explain any of this to her. Truthfully, he’d rather not have to explain any of this to her ever, but he’s also aware that he can’t avoid his past forever.

Still, there are some things his daughter just doesn’t need to know.

Harry thinks back to the last interview he did, the one on Good Morning America where he was hounded about his plans for the future, to which he’d responded by informing everyone he was having a baby and then disappearing the next day.

That had been fun.

He’d especially enjoyed the headline that followed, which Gemma had so generously sent him the next morning, along with an extremely diverse collection of emojis.

**HARRY STYLES IS HAVING A BABY** , it had read, followed by the tagline: **AND IT’S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS**.

It’s still one of the only things written about himself that he didn’t completely hate. Well, he hadn’t actually read the article, he’d learned that lesson the hard way, but the headline was still excellent. Even if it did make it seem like he was the one having the baby. (Secretly, he’d always wondered if people had actually thought that. Knowing the way some think, he wouldn’t be too surprised, really.)

The rest of the trip goes by in a haze, Harry can’t keep himself from glancing at everyone holding a phone with suspicion. Finally, they reach the till; Harry’s just starting to calm down when the noise is back, and then he can’t remain inside any longer.

Louis looks a bit taken aback at Harry’s abrupt exit, but lets him retreat without protest. In his haste to escape, Harry forgot about the virtual monsoon outside and finds himself caught in it once again. “Shit!”

The square is dead as a doornail, with only a few other vehicles parked by the kerb. The rain is pouring down hard and fast, and Harry swears as he starts to run to the car, but it’s no use; he still manages to get completely drenched before he can even reach it.

His hair sticks to his face, and he gathers it up in a bun at the back of his head using the hairband on his wrist. He’s in the process of smoothing down stray hairs—and definitely not using the shop window as a mirror—when someone clears their throat behind him. He jumps, and feels a bit silly when it turns out to just be Louis. A very put out Louis, actually, because Harry’d left him behind to carry all the bags by himself.

He cocks an eyebrow. “Care to explain yourself, Harold?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, wrenching open the car door and climbing inside. He starts up the car, and turns the heating all the way up until it’s blasting, but that doesn’t stop him from shivering in the driver’s seat.

Louis silently opens his own door and climbs inside. The car fills with tension then, thick enough to cut with a knife and choking Harry as he struggles to ignore it. The fact that Louis doesn’t seem to be speaking to him at the moment isn’t serving to distract him at all, but Harry is too anxious to start up a convo of his own.

Everything is such a mess.

He doesn’t remember Niall or Liam having any trouble avoiding the spotlight, but it had seemed determined to shine on Harry as the public wanted to know more and more about his plans for the future. Was he going solo? Would he finally pick a model and settle down? Would he ever give a straight answer in an interview?

(No, no, and no, of course not.)

Then again, his friends didn’t seem as determined to avoid all the attention, and definitely hadn’t sparked interest in their whereabouts the way Harry had by disappearing. In some ways that feels more counterproductive than he originally intended.

Oh well; hindsight's 20/20 and all that.

Besides, he wouldn’t change the events of the past nine years for the world. Everyone seemed to think he was mad, if the articles Gemma wouldn’t stop sending him were anything to go by. In their eyes, he’d had it all. He’d been one quarter of a hugely successful boy band, he’d been rich, he’d been famous, he’d been linked to nearly every beautiful women the entertainment industry had to offer.

He’d been paid to dick around with his best friends on stage for three-quarters of the year, he was paid to do what he loved: to sing, to perform, to entertain. Everybody had wanted him and everybody had wanted to be him.

So, yes, Harry can see why it seemed he’d had it all. But the truth is, he really hadn’t.

Which is why he’d disappeared.

Which is why the idea of being “found” has him so on edge.

He knows he’ll have to explain this all to Louis eventually. Just not yet. Preferably not at all, really, except Harry wants to make this work with Louis. And he knows he can’t make this work if he doesn’t talk to the other man about things that bother him. Just… Well, he’s afraid Louis won’t want to hear this. Because Harry is perfectly aware of how Louis feels about his past. He’s nervous about what sort of feelings that will bring up.

Best to avoid it for now, he thinks.

His eyes flicker to his left, where Louis is curled up in the passenger seat, leaning his head against the window glass and chewing on his lip. He’s unusually quiet, and Harry’s dying to know what he’s thinking about. He’d ask, if he wasn’t so bloody afraid of the answer.

Harry doesn’t know when he’d become such a coward, but he suspects it came hand in hand with his newfound fear of losing one of the most important people in his life - not counting his family, of course - and the thought that things like this could set off a chain of events that would end with Louis leaving them.

He hates how much that thought terrifies him. No matter how irrational it may be.

Harry would like Louis to stay in his life for a while, if he’s honest, and he’ll be damned if he lets anything ruin his newfound happiness.

(Especially if that ‘anything’ turns out to be himself.)

* * *

The night before Beau is due to return to school, Harry plans a movie night for the three of them, which goes awry once he realises he doesn’t own the movie he’d promised they’d watch.

“What kind of person doesn’t own _Grease_?” Louis cries after Harry admits as much. “Everyone owns _Grease_.”

“I thought I did!”

“Well, you don’t. How are we meant to watch it now?”

“I can go and get it?”

Louis stops mid-strop. “What?”

“I can get the film.”

“Why would you do that? It’s late, everywhere’s closed.”

“I’m sure there’s places; I could find something.”

“No, you’re not doing that; let’s just watch something else. What do you have?”

“We can check Netflix for something.”

“No way,” Louis insists. “You promised me an old-school movie night, and that includes DVDs.”

“I don’t even know what I have.”

“As evidenced by the fact that you falsely advertised a showing of Grease.”

“I don’t want to watch Netflix either,” Beau says, and Harry makes a face at Louis, who smiles innocently back at him.

“Fine,” Harry sighs, “the two of you are on your own, though.”

Louis’ cheer is only barely rivalled by Beau’s and they go to search Harry’s - quite small, really - collection.

“You literally have nothing,” he complains.

“Because I’m a normal person who uses Netflix,” Harry retorts.

“You’re no fun.”

“And how many DVDs do _you_ own, Lou?”

Louis doesn’t answer, aware he’s lost this one.

“See?” Harry crows. “You don’t use them either.”

“Yeah, well, at least I don’t tell people I’ve got them when I don’t.”

“Again, I never told you we were watching a DVD.”

“And, _again_ , it was implied.”

“I’ve got one!” Beau shouts, interrupting their squabble as she holds up Harry’s copy of Dirty Dancing. Louis looks over then, raising an eyebrow in a silent question, and Harry shrugs.

“Alright, then,” Louis says. “Dirty Dancing it is.”

It takes Harry longer than it should to get the player up and running, but he finally does, and the three of them settle into the sofa with their popcorn, Harry sitting in the middle of everyone.

They watch in relative silence until Harry breaks it to say, “Patrick Swayze is fit.”

Louis kicks out at him, his toe grazing Harry’s ankle far more gently than intended. “Oi, I’m right here.”

“Yes, you are. Thanks for reminding me,” Harry says, grinning at him in a way that lets Louis know he’s being a little shit on purpose. Oh well, two can play at that game, he supposes.

It can wait until later, though. Louis turns his attention back to the screen where Baby is crawling across the floor now, and the sight immediately reminds him of why he’s never watched this movie with his younger sisters.

“Harry,” he hisses, hopefully low enough not to be picked up by Beau’s sharp little ears. “ _Harry_ ,” he says again, as the other man hasn’t heard him. This time Harry looks over, and leans into Louis’ space.

“What is it?” he whispers back.

“I think this might have been a bad movie choice to watch with—” he jerks his head in Beau’s direction.

Harry’s brow wrinkles and he frowns, before replying just as low as before. “I think they took that bit out of this version. Actually…” he goes to dig his phone out of the pocket of his jeans. “Let me check.”

Louis nods, and checks to make sure Beau hasn’t realised they’re talking about her, only to be met with her inquisitive stare. He winces, and gives her a tentative smile.

“No talking during the film,” she tells them, and Harry laughs.

“Sorry, Bo-bear. We’ll be quiet now.”

And they are, as Harry pulls up a Wikipedia page and scrolls until he’s not only reassured that, yes, his daughter will not be experiencing an explicit sex scene that he stupidly forgot even existed in the first place, but more information about the production of the movie than he’d ever cared to know. Still, might come in handy someday. Maybe. He should probably stop reading this now.

He nudges Louis with his elbow and informs him of his findings - well, only the relevant ones - and Beau turns again to glare once more. “ _No talking_.”

“Sorry,” they say in unison, and then “jinx!” at the same time again. Beau shoots them a glare that makes Louis laugh, and Harry follows suit until they’re both giggling at a disgruntled Beau.

It’s all so domestic and lovely that Louis never wants it to end, wants this feeling to continue long after the film is over.

* * *

Apparently, their punishment for talking during the film too much is recreating the final dance of the film for Beau. Harry isn’t quite sure how he let himself be talked into this, but he was infinitely easier to convince than Louis is turning out to be.

“I’m not going to do that. Sorry, Beau. Not sorry, Harold, especially for thinking I _would_.”

Harry sticks out his lower lip and bats his lashes, affecting a goofy pout. “Please?”

Louis shakes his head. “There’s no way I’m letting you do that to me.”

“C’mon, Lou.”

“No. You’ll drop me.”

“I won’t drop you,” Harry insists.

Beau giggles from her spot on the sofa. “Don’t drop Louis, Daddy. He’ll get so cross.”

“See? Listen to the girl, Styles.”

“I just want to see if I can do it. Plus, you’re light.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re small.”

“ _Excuse me_?”

“You’re excused.”

“You’re an ar— Idiot. You’re an idiot, and I’m not doing this,” he tells Harry, and winces when Beau frowns, and Louis knows it’s an act, that she’s only trying to guilt him into risking his life for her entertainment - okay, that might be an exaggeration. He sighs, resigned to the fact that this is happening.

“If you drop me,” he warns, “I will actually murder you.”

Harry rolls his eyes, a bold move considering Louis is 100% serious, and raises his arms. “Go ahead; ‘m ready?”

“You sure?” he asks. Harry braces himself and nods.

Louis takes a deep breath and runs at him. The moment Harry’s hands encircle his waist and begin to lift him, Louis grins. He’s doing it, he’s really doing it, he’s raising his arms, Louis’ feet are leaving the floor, and…

And then Harry drops him.

“What the fuck!” he yells, “and nobody bring up the bloody swear jar!”

Harry’s eyes go wide. “Sorry!”

“You’re _sorry_?” Louis asks, incredulous.

“Yes!” Harry cries “I’m sorry!”

“I can’t believe you dropped me!”

“It’s not like I meant to!”

“I shouldn’t have trusted you and your baby giraffe legs.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t wiggle around so much.”

“You were tickling me.”

“Not intentionally!” Harry insists.

“I don’t believe you.”

“It really wasn’t!”

“We’re breaking up,” Louis huffs, and then, “Why are you laughing? I’m serious. Unhand me, you giant.”

“What if I don’t?”

“Daddy,” Beau giggles, “let him go.”

“Fine,” Harry groans, pretending to be 100% more put-upon than he actually is, and he returns Louis to his previous sitting position on the floor, which earns him a pair of crossed arms and an even deeper scowl. He smiles innocently as he holds out a helping hand, which Louis has to be convinced by Beau to take, because according to him, he ‘doesn’t trust like that anymore’. That just makes Harry laugh, and then hope he isn’t serious. (Knowing Louis, it’s anyone’s guess, really.) Once he’s up, Louis immediately lets himself sag against Harry. At the same time, Beau leaps onto Louis’ back, knocking Harry off balance and sending the three of them toppling to the floor this time.

Despite the fact that he’s at the bottom of a doggie pile - literally, because as soon as Clifford caught wind of what they were up to, he’d run into the room and joined in on the fun - Harry’s enjoying himself immensely. How could he not, when he’s spending time with his favourite people. Even Miss Kitty has deemed this event important enough to make an appearance, and Harry wishes he had some way to preserve this moment, because it’s perfect and he’d like to remember it often.

He settles for a mental snapshot, then refocuses all of his attention on getting free, as he can’t exactly breathe. Then again, he thinks, as Louis huffs hotly against his neck, breathing is overrated.

* * *

Winter has finally deemed it cold enough to bring snow, and Beau has somehow convinced Harry and Louis to join her in the back garden for a snowball fight. (Okay, so Harry had given her the idea. But he’ll never admit it out loud.)

Louis proves to be an absolute menace when allowed unlimited access to snow, which, to be fair, isn’t much different than he is any other day, except this time Harry’s being mercilessly pelted with snow by both his boyfriend and his daughter and he barely has time to form his own snowball when a cold lump of snow hits him in the back of the head. Harry’s eyes fly open to see Louis grinning cheekily at him, a handful of the stuff clutched tightly in his fingers.

“Are you 12?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he pulls his arm back as if to toss more snow, and Harry rolls out of the way, clambering to his feet as fast as he can. Beau giggles, and Harry pretends to pout.

“You’re supposed to be on my side, daughter-of-mine.”

Louis laughs, loud and bright. “Are you jealous, Harold?”

“Of course not,” he insists. “That’d be silly.”

Harry watches as Louis runs towards the tree, Beau on his heels. He catches the moment Louis slows down enough to allow her to pass him, and smiles to himself when he hears her triumphant shriek.

* * *

The cause of the increasing weirdness is discovered a week after Harry’s birthday.

He doesn’t live in a particularly quiet neighbourhood - sure, most of his neighbours are older and don’t usually kick up a lot of fuss - but there are enough children and dogs and typical hustle and bustle that noise outside his house first thing in the morning doesn’t typically phase him.

This, however, is no normal amount of noise.

Harry runs to his bedroom window and looks down at the street below. He recognises the vans almost instantly, and his heart sinks to his knees. He should have known he couldn’t hide here forever. He should have known all the shit from his past would never release its claws. He should have known he could never truly be free.

Louis must have woken up without Harry noticing, because he feels the other man behind him, feels a tentative hand come to rest on his shoulder and Louis asks, “Haz? What’s happening? Who are these people? Why are they here?” He sounds concerned, and Harry can barely think over the noise of blood pounding in his ears. They need to get to Beau. They need to _move_.

“Stay behind me,” Harry instructs quickly and quietly. “And try to avoid the windows.”

Louis looks like he has a million more questions, but complies anyway. “We’re talking about this later,” he whispers to Harry’s shoulder, and Harry nods, because that’s fair.

He manages to get Beau ready for school, working to ignore his pounding heart and the slightly panicked looks Louis keeps shooting them. He really should tell Beau what’s happened - what’s currently happening, really - and he really should take a moment to reassure Louis, to answer the questions that seem seconds away from falling out of his lips. But he doesn’t.

And it’s not because he doesn’t want to. Because he _does_. But he’s frozen, panicking himself, and completely unable to take care of his family like he should be. He feels pathetic. It’s a horrible sensation. He’s sickened by his reaction, and he stops in the hallway, hand inches away from where Beau’s rucksack hangs on the coat rack, when he feels a familiar body pressing against his back.

“Let me get that, love,” Louis whispers softly, delicately, like Harry’s whole world isn’t imploding. Like everything isn’t seconds away from falling apart.

“Is everyone ready to go?” he asks then, mostly for Beau’s benefit.

“I call shotgun,” Louis calls, thankfully picking up on Harry’s desire for a distraction, and takes off running towards the car.

“Do you think he forgot I can’t sit in the front seat?” Beau asks Harry, and he smiles down at her.

“Let’s just let him think he’s won this one, yeah?”

She grins. “Yes, let’s do that.”

“Where are you guys?” Louis’ calling now, pretending he can’t see them. Probably pretending he can’t see anyone else as well. It’s a bold strategy; Harry can admire his determination to treat this morning as just another normal one. And it works at first - at least, it appears to. Enough that Louis lets his guard down, accidentally makes eye contact with a bloke holding a microphone, and that’s when the questions begin.

“Mr. Tomlinson. Mr. Tomlinson!” someone calls, and Harry winces, already dreading what’s going to come next. “Is it true? Are you really 23?”

 

Louis continues to ignore them, attempts to keep his face as neutral as possible, which only makes the vultures more determined to get him to break.

“Are you aware that, at 32, Mr. Styles is significantly older than you?” another voice asks, and Louis’ lips twitches.

“Cheers, love, I had no idea.”

He works to keep the venom from his voice, but it’s an uphill battle. It also does nothing to stem the flow of questions either, if anything, it seems to spur these people on further. Their inquiries grow more and more invasive until they finally make it to the car, where Harry releases Beau from his protective hold, removing his hands from her ears and helping her into the backseat.

Louis comes to stand beside him. “How do you do it?” he mumbles unhappily into Harry’s firm shoulder.

“I don’t,” Harry replies. “I ran away from all of this, remember?”

Louis does, and then he feels a bit sick at the thought that all of this might be his fault.

“Louis.” Louis starts at Harry’s sharp tone, and for a moment he’s afraid Harry is going to tell him to leave, to go back inside, but then Harry’s face goes soft, and he brings a hand up to cup Louis’ cheek. “Louis,” he repeats, “this isn’t your fault. You didn’t cause this, okay? It’s not your fault.”

But it is, Louis wants to yell, and Harry’s expression just becomes more determined.

“Not. Your. Fault.”

Louis knows this, he really does, but it still does nothing to calm his nerves as he faces the rest of the day. He doesn’t go to work; he and Harry return home after dropping Beau off where they stay most of the day until Harry gets stir crazy and begs Louis to go with him to the bakery, where he swears no one will notice them at.

Harry turns out to be wrong, though.

Harry turns out to be very, very wrong.

There’s a chorus of shrieks, and then three girls run over to them. Well, women, really. (Pedantics.)

Harry smiles at them, but it’s tight, and there’s no light behind his eyes when he does it. It’s a far cry from the one that’s greeted Louis every morning for the past three weeks, and Louis holds that pleased, greedy feeling close to his heart. Harry’s got a smile that Louis sees and these girls - women - don’t, and that alone is what gets him to move out of their way. That, and the fact that one of them accidentally (or not) just whacked Louis with her handbag.

How lovely.

Louis reaches for Harry’s hand, needing to touch him right now, to let him know he’s here. Harry lets him, and Louis intertwines their fingers.

At this point, even the older members of the crowd in the bakery seem to realise that there’s something big happening, and the whole bloody place is full of rubberneckers. Louis rakes a hand down the front of his face, and quickly considers his options. Obviously, his priority is to get Harry out of here, so they can go and pick up— Shit!

Beau.

Suddenly extremely grateful Harry had insisted he put Anne’s number in his phone, he shoots her a quick text asking if she can pick up Beau from dance club. He doesn’t explain their hold up as he doesn’t want to worry her, but he suspects she will anyway, because there’s very little that keeps Harry from his daughter.

His phone buzzes less than a moment later, Anne informing him that she’s stuck in a meeting, but Gemma is on her way. Louis breathes a sigh of relief, and is about to tell Harry everything is okay, when he remembers exactly why he’d just done all that.

Right. Back to plotting their escape.

Except, he’s got no idea how. Shit.

Harry’s signing things now. Just…things. Louis doesn’t know how he does it. He suspects it’s some sort of media-training that never truly went away. He’s familiar enough with that sort of thing from his mum’s time in the business.

Although she never worked in the music industry, or even Hollywood, she’d still seen some shit, and Louis knows that whatever evil had been brewing in those studios has to be far tamer than whatever Harry’d experienced in his boybander days.

His heart breaks.

More and more people in the bakery are stopping to watch them. Harry ducks his head so that his hair falls in his face, conveying his feelings to Louis with wide eyes and a jerk of his head towards the door.

Louis understands, and with one determined glare at the crowd, he manages to free Harry from his audience with an only minimal complaint. Once outside, Harry looks like he can breathe again, and he emerges from his hair curtain.

But they’re not alone.

At first, Louis assumes the girl hasn’t noticed he’s there, but he’s proven wrong when she looks past Harry and fixes him with a glare.

Her mouth twists as she spits out, “I hope you’re happy.”

He has no idea what he’s supposed to be happy about, but he certainly isn’t happy now. It’s not that he hates large crowds, he really doesn’t mind them, but it’s the feeling of being mobbed that’s currently overwhelming all of his senses. Harry seems to pick up on his distress, because he takes Louis’ hand in his larger one and pulls him into his chest. Louis allows Harry to hold him close as he works to steer them both out of the crowd. They’ve very nearly made it when a lone reporter notices them and calls out, “Is it true the two of you have a sugar daddy-type arrangement? Mr. Tomlinson, how will you defend yourself against these vicious rumours?”

“The rumours started by you, you mean?” he calls, and Harry looks seconds away from clapping a hand over his mouth.

“Fucking hell, Lou. Don’t give them any fodder. It’ll only make this worse.”

Louis pales. “This isn’t worse?”

Harry shakes his head sadly, and Louis takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Oh.”

“I’ll understand if… Well if you— I mean, I’d never make you— Shit, Lou, I…”

“Don’t be stupid,” Louis chastises gently. “Of course I’m not going to leave. Just… Well, this is a lot.”

Harry nods, because obviously he understands, and he really did mean it when he said - tried to say - he’d understand if Louis wanted out. “It is a lot.”

“But so are we. A lot. We’re a lot. Us.”

This earns him an eyebrow raise. “That was… Eloquent.”

“Fuck off.”

“But then who would protect you from the scary paps?” Harry giggles, and although the moment is still a little too tender for jokes of that sort, Louis still manages a giggle in return.

“I’m sure I could find someone,” he says, “I’ll have you know the Daily Mail just called me ‘fit and fuckable’.”

Harry pauses at the new information. “What? When did that happen?”

“Just now, Harold, keep up.” He holds up his phone, and although the screen is just slightly too far away for Harry to read the tiny text without his glasses, he manages to make out the title. It’s an article about Louis. In the Daily Mail.

For fuck’s sake.

He gently snatches the phone from Louis and skims the article. It’s mostly full of exactly the kind of shit he expected. All of it lies. All of it an insult. All of it tempting Harry to throw his weight around and get the article pulled. But if he did that, if he gave them a reaction, then it would be all over. All of this, his quiet normal life, would be gone.

Except, he thinks sadly, maybe it already is.

* * *

Louis can’t even go to the pet shop by himself anymore, apparently, without being stopped by strangers for a photo. Or an autograph. Or, and this one happens the most often, to ask him questions about Harry. What his favourite meal is, what he wears to bed. What colour his toothbrush is.

(What he smells like.)

Sometimes Louis answers honestly, but most of the time he’ll make up ridiculous responses, and people will eat them up, because they now think they’re in possession of insider Harry Styles Facts.

Poor bastards.

Three middle-aged women have cornered him in the dog food aisle, and are on their 20th question when Louis can’t do it anymore, and goes to leave without the food.

The women look a bit taken aback by Louis’ abrupt exit, but let him retreat without protest, thank God.

He doesn’t think he’ll tell Harry about this encounter, it’s just not worth it. They’re happening so often now that there’s no reason to worry Harry, Louis reasons.

Except he does, because he never did get Clifford’s food, and he needs Harry to pick it up on the way home. And Harry asks him why he didn’t get it himself, because wasn’t Louis just at the shop earlier? And of course Louis explains, because he can’t lie to Harry. Not even to protect his feelings.

It’s still fine. Everything’s still fine.

* * *

The next morning, he tweets: _Nothing worse than waking up with no milk for a cuppa !! Gutted_ with an angry emoji to cap it off, and is proper shaken when a woman shows up at Harry’s door within the hour, carrying a bottle of milk.

Louis politely sends her on her way, bottle of milk still in her hand, and calls Harry. It goes to voicemail, which he expected, as Harry typically puts it on silent for his meetings. Louis debates leaving one before hanging up and texting him instead.

**_hi love, had a bit of a scare but im fine now. don’t come home, im okay_ **

(Harry doesn’t listen, of course, and Louis is secretly very, very glad.)

* * *

Everything is still fine, but less so. Things feel strained. Louis is constantly stressed, constantly looking over his shoulder.

He wonders how much longer this will last. He wonders if it will ever stop.

He wonders how much more he can handle before he breaks.

Harry’s arms snake themselves around his waist and he feels himself being pulled gently backwards. He allows himself a moment to enjoy the embrace before he says, “This would be really funny if it weren’t happening to me.”

“No, it wouldn’t.”

“No,” Louis sighs, “it really wouldn’t.”

Everything is fine.

* * *

Although Louis would never admit this to Harry, he’s come to dread leaving the house.

If it’s not a random pap shouting questions at him - seriously, why the fuck are they even still here? - then it’s a fan coming up to him, asking for a picture, asking for an autograph, a video for someone back home.

Asking about Harry.

Always about Harry.

Somewhere in the back of Louis’ mind, he supposes he always knew this was something he’d need to be prepared for. Harry couldn’t stay in the shadows forever, it just wasn’t realistic. But this aggressive reminder that he’s not only dating Harry, that he’s also dating Harry Styles, that he’s expected to share his boyfriend with the world, is bloody depressing.

He can’t even drive around anymore. Like today, like right now when there are people gawking at him through his window, people crowding closer and he _hates_ it.

Before he can really think it through, his hand emerges from the car, broadcasting his defiant middle finger for everyone to see. It’ll get him in trouble, he’s well aware, but right now he bloody well couldn’t care less. They can all go fuck themselves, and he’s not afraid to let it be known. So he doesn’t lower his hand, even when he hears the tell-tale clicking begin. He won’t back down now, he can’t. And at this point, he isn’t sure he even knows how.

* * *

One of the advantages of growing up in the business, Harry thinks to himself, is that he can spot professional bullshitters from a mile away. It’s a talent of sorts, though not one he can whip out at Christmas parties. That’s why he learnt how to juggle.

He chuckles dryly at his own joke, and continues inside the shop to pick up the things Louis requested.

His car is still in the same spot he left it when he returns, only there’s a crowd of people where there wasn’t one before.

He counts to ten before exiting the building and walking towards his car with all the enthusiasm of a man walking to his execution.

“It’s only temporary,” he mutters to himself. “this isn’t forever.”

Everything is fine.

* * *

Harry’s still shaken by what happened the other day, a reminder of how little people seem to care about his privacy, or even his right to personal space. It’s not a life he wants to return to, he dreads the idea that this could become his new normal, and he’s on the verge of letting those negative thoughts consume him completely when Beau kicks the back of his seat. “I want McDonald’s,” she whines, making Harry turn around in the passenger seat to face her.

“We’re nearly there, Bo-bear.”

“I don’t care,” she says, apparently too cranky to comment on her father’s accidental rhyming. “I want it.”

Louis can’t help but smile at the way Harry rolls his eyes skyward, most likely cursing both his daughter’s stubborn streak and extreme chicken McNugget addiction.

“No,” he says, “we don’t have time.”

“I could go for a McDonald’s meself,” Louis says, half because he wants to rile Harry up and half because he actually is hungry, and they’ve still got a while to go before they reach Doncaster. Much too long to keep driving on an empty stomach, really. Harry fixes him with a glare that Louis returns with an innocent looking smile, and Harry must realise he’s outnumbered because he sits back in his seat and grumbles, “Fine, let’s go to McDonald’s, then.”

Both Louis and Beau let out a loud cheer, and Harry rolls his eyes. Louis, in his excitement at the prospect of his Big Mac and fries, accidentally presses a bit too hard on the pedal and winces as he realises what he’s done. He eases off the gas then, but not before Harry notices what he’s done.

“Slow down there, Speed Racer,” Harry teases him, and Louis sticks out his tongue childishly without taking his eyes off the road.

“Like you’ve never done it,” he snorts.

“I’ll have you know I am an extremely careful driver,” Harry informs him haughtily.

“You ignored a red light when you were driving me to school last week,” Beau reminds him.

“That’s different,” Harry insists. “That was an emergency.”

Louis’ blood goes cold. “An emergency? You didn’t tell me about any emergency,” he says, concerned now.

“It, uh,” Harry stalls as Beau giggles, “it wasn’t actually an emergency,” he admits.

“Yes it was; Daddy had to wee.”

Harry flushes. “Yes, thank you for mentioning that, Beau.”

Louis mercifully does not acknowledge this piece of information, and they drive on. He begins searching for the nearest exit with a McDonald’s close by. When they finally locate one, Louis rattles off their order, surprised when Harry requests a milkshake, of all things. He chooses not to comment though, and just takes it on to the end of the order.

Once they’re driving away and the food has been doled out, Louis watches out of the corner of his eye as Harry takes a sip of the milkshake and makes a face.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Did they not give you the right kind? We can go back, I don’t mind.” If it was anyone else, he would. But he doesn’t like to dwell on that thought too often; the implications are overwhelming.  
  
“No, they did,” Harry replies, “I just forgot how much I hate their milkshakes, is all.”

Louis rolls his eyes and reaches out his hand. “Give it here, then.”

Harry shakes his head. “You don’t have to drink it.”

“Don’t be silly, it’s fine.”

“Shit!”

“Beau!” Louis gasps, “what the fuck was that?”

“Sorry,” she says, “I spilt my ketchup.”

“That’s not an excuse to swear,” Harry tells her.

“Louis did it too,” she points out, and Harry stares pointedly at him.

“You’re right,” he says, “Louis did do that.”

“You have to put a pound in the swear jar,” Beau sing-songs.

“So do you,” Louis shoots back.

“Oh yeah,” Beau says, like she forgot what had prompted him to say the word in the first place.

“How bad is it?” Harry asks her, referring to the ketchup mess.

“Really bad,” she replies, and Louis knows before Harry even says anything that they need to pull over to the side of the road and clean her - as well as the interior of the car - up before continuing their journey any further. He figures he’s made the right choice when Harry doesn’t say anything to the contrary as he once again pulls off the motorway and into the nearest random car park.

“Lou? Do you mind going into Beau’s suitcase and grabbing another pair of leggings?”

“And a top!” she calls. “I need a new top to match my new leggings!”

Louis rolls his eyes affectionately and smiles to himself at Beau’s insistence on maintaining her quirky aesthetic even on long car journeys. She reminds him a lot of her father in that moment, actually. Harry’s opted for something comfortable for the trip, but he’s still got on a pair of bright blue trousers and a pink button-down shirt with his last name embroidered in black like he’s tempting fate. On his feet are a pair of classic black Vans, his hair is pulled back into a messy bun, and Louis has never found him more attractive.

“Louis?” Beau calls again, “where’s my outfit?”

Right, that’s why he’s back here.

“Sorry!” he calls back, “I’m searching now!”

He digs out her small suitcase and unzips it, working to find an outfit that he hopes she’ll deem worthy, settling on a pair of shiny gold leggings and a deep purple tunic with subtle golden glitter embedded in the soft fabric. The happy squeal he receives upon delivering the requested outfit is enough of a confirmation that he made the right choice, and his stomach flutters happily when Harry mouths a relieved “Thank you.”

Louis tries not to dwell on how often this occurs. Or how sometimes he feels like he’s Beau’s other parent.

Truthfully, he really wouldn’t mind that at all. He adores kids, adores Beau, and all the things Harry’s asked of him is nothing he isn’t used to doing for his little sisters, it’s just… Well, what does it all mean?

Louis is conflicted. And when Louis is conflicted, he tends to overthink. And when Louis overthinks… Well, nothing good ever comes out of it. So he tries his hardest to push those conflicted thoughts from his mind.

And fails.

Horrendously.

Louis grips the wheel tight as he navigates the sharp curve that’s just popped up out of nowhere, and the wrapped books - the presents for Ernie and Doris - slide across the footwell, dangerously close to the pedals. “Fuck,” Louis curses quietly. Luckily, he arrives before the bloody book gets a chance to kill the three of them.

He ignores the uneasy feeling that takes over then, like the universe is trying to tell him something; a warning, maybe. Whatever it is, he chooses to ignore it. It’s not that important.

(The feeling doesn’t leave.)

* * *

Beau and Louis had left him to get the things from the car, which he did without protest, but only because it’s a special occasion, and a little bit because he’s easy for them, has such a hard time saying no. The two of them have no idea how spoiled they are, he thinks to himself. (Or maybe they do, and are taking advantage.) (In Louis’ case, it’s most likely the latter.)

Once he’s all finished, he walks through the house to find everyone gathered in the living room. Louis’ back is to him, and Harry decides to use the opportunity to sneak up on him - he’s been so tense lately, Harry figures they could each use a laugh. So he does.

Louis jumps dramatically when Harry’s hands hit his waist, which makes Harry jump, and then feel a bit silly when he realises Louis’ playacting after he says, “Christ, Hazza! When did you get here?”

Harry laughs at the absurdity of the situation, and when he catches Louis’ eye, he finds the other man in a similar state of hysteria. Even Beau can’t seem to contain her giggles.

The doorbell rings then, and Louis rises from the table before anyone else has a chance to get up. “I’ve got it.”

Louis’ face twists into something ugly when he realises he doesn’t know these people. Well, that’s not exactly true, because while he might not know them personally, he knows why they’re here. More importantly, he knows they’ve managed to find his family.

He’s livid.

“I’m going to count to ten,” he says coldly. “I’m going to shut this door, I’m going to count to ten, and you lot better be fucking gone, got it?”

He does it, closes the door in their faces, but when he opens it, they’re still there. They’re still fucking there. Standing on his family’s front doorstep like they’re bloody supposed to be there. Louis is seconds away from calling the police when Harry appears behind him.

“Louis? Who’s at the— ” Harry cuts himself off as the crowd in front of him lets out a collective gasp, and Louis feels Harry grip the back of his shirt, nails scratching at his skin through the fabric.

“Hi! We wanted to wish the twins a Happy Birthday? And, if we could, Harry, we’d just like to tell you— ”

“Frankly, my dear,” Louis snaps, “I don’t give a flying fuck what you have to say.”

He slams the door then, and the loud noise is satisfying for all of three seconds before he’s sinking to the ground right there in the hallway. He barely registers Harry’s arms around him, and they stay there until he’s calm enough to speak.

“They found my family, Harry,” Louis says quietly. “They fucking found my family.”

 

Louis looks small and vulnerable enough right then that Harry is torn between pulling him even closer, right onto his lap even, and telling him everything will be okay - that Harry will make everything okay - and telling him off for not keeping Harry updated on everything else that’s happened. Harry rakes his fingers through his hair, distressed.

“What can I do?” he asks Louis. “How can I help?”

“You can’t.”

Louis isn’t even raising his voice anymore. Harry wishes he was still yelling, because Harry can handle yelling. He can handle an angry Louis, he’s used to an angry Louis.

He doesn’t know how to react to this Louis.

He doesn’t know how to react to the way Louis’ silent and withdrawn for the rest of the party. It makes him nervous. This whole bloody thing is a nightmare that won’t end, no matter how much he wants to wake up. It just. Won’t. End.

The thought that it won’t, that it might not ever end, is enough to make Harry lose his appetite; neither he nor Louis partake in cake and no one says anything, but it’s obvious they’re worrying people.

Harry doesn’t know what to do; he’s lost and scared and he doesn’t know how to protect the people he loves from the thing he fears most. But he can’t let his guard down now, can’t let anyone see how nervous he is. He’s got to put on a brave face, hide behind a mask strong enough to fool anyone into thinking he’s okay.

He just hopes it is enough to fool Louis.

* * *

Everything is fine.

It’s fine.

Everything is _fine_.

Except it really isn’t.

Louis doesn’t know when exactly the shift happened, but he suspects that seeing those people on the steps of his family’s home, _actually_ expecting to be invited inside triggered some sort of delayed response, and is directly responsible for his absolutely terrible mood.

He could have been so happy. He could have continued to live his life without wondering what it would have been like with Harry in it.

Fuck. Goddamn fucking _fuck_!

He can’t do this anymore. He can’t keep pretending like this isn’t affecting him.

Louis slams his fist into the wall and cries out as he bruises his already sore knuckles. They start to burn, and the pain helps to bring him back to reality. He sinks to the floor, still breathing heavily.

Louis knows what he has to do. The thought breaks his heart, but it’s what’s best for everyone involved, he’s sure of it.

He has to leave.

* * *

“I ran into some Statusers today.”

“God, that’s such a terrible name. _Statusers_. Ugh.”

“So you never even dabbled in it?” he jokes. “Never did a bit of lowkey statuser-ing?”

“No? What the fuck. You know that.”

“Ah, well, a man can dream.”

“You dream about me being a fan of you?”

“No, not really. I know you too well, know how much you avoided me when I was… Back then.”

“I watched your last interview,” Louis admits, and Harry turns to him, surprised. “Not willingly, of course,” he amends quickly. “My sisters wouldn’t give me the remote, and I was pestering them to give it back, then you started talking and I just… I stayed and watched. I remember the moment you dropped that bomb, and the chaos that came after, and I never got it before, how someone could do that. How someone could just give all of that up, just walk away. But now…”

“Now?”

“Now I do.”

Harry sighs. “I wish I could just protect you from everything.”

“Don’t be stupid, Harold,” Louis says. “No one can do that.”

“I could. If I tried.”

“No, you _can’t_.” Louis’ angry now, annoyed because Harry just doesn’t _get it_. He doesn’t get why Louis’ reacting like this, because he’s famous, he’s used to this, none of this phases him half as much as it does Louis, and he’s _angry_.

“Why didn’t you say something before?” Harry’s asking now “Why didn’t you tell me how much this was bothering you?”

He doesn’t answer him.

“ _Louis_ ,” Harry pleads, and Louis’ heart breaks the minute his voice does. “Louis. Tell me what you need, and I’ll do it. Just… Please, baby. Talk to me. _Please_.” His voice is cracking still, he isn’t making any effort to stop it. To hide how much this is upsetting him.

Louis feels ill.

“I need to leave,” he says, and Harry whimpers brokenly. He looks almost comical, standing there in his pants, arms hanging limply by his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. It makes him look almost comical, like the awkward baby giraffe Louis teases him about resembling - only Louis isn’t laughing.

Louis feels worse than ill.

“I understand,” Harry says, just like Louis expected him to, and he sounds so tired, so defeated, so unlike his usual cheerful self that Louis wants to cry.

Louis wants to kiss the frown off of Harry’s face, smooth the crease between his brows. He wants Harry back in his arms, wants to feel him warm and solid against his chest while they spoon.

He wants to rewind the conversation to before this fight began; he doesn’t know how things got this bad so fast. He blames the reporters. He blames whoever blabbed about them being here. But mostly, Louis blames himself. He’s the one who made the choice to be with Harry. He’s the one responsible for putting his family in danger.

It’s all Louis’ fault for allowing himself to get tangled up in the mess that is Harry Styles’ life.

“Will you… I mean obviously you can stay in your old room, but—” Harry swallows, and it sounds wet, and Louis hates everything about this, hates himself a bit, even. “Will you stay until morning? I know— She… She’ll want…”

“Tell her I’ll miss her, okay?” Louis knows that it’s a dick move to leave without saying goodbye to Beau, but he doesn’t think he’d be able to bear seeing her face when he tells her he’s leaving. He’s an arsehole for thrusting that job on Harry, but he’s also an arsehole for leaving in the first place, so one more count doesn’t matter.

(At least, that’s what he tells himself.)

Louis’ bags are already in his car, he’s got Clifford on a lead, and there’s not any reason to stay longer. Unaware that he won’t be coming back, Clifford bounds out the door, dragging Louis behind him. It’s the pull he needs, otherwise he’ll change his mind.

_I can do this_ , he thinks. _I can leave_ , then: _And even if I can’t, I have to_.

“I’m sorry, Harry.”

 

Louis’ leaving. Louis’ _leaving_. And Harry can’t do anything to stop him. He’s glad Beau’s already asleep - that she doesn’t have to be here for this - because he couldn’t bear for her to see him like this; crying openly now as he watches Louis get into his car, most likely for the final time. He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t look at Harry again before the car engine starts up and he drives away.

And that’s when Harry breaks.


	8. Chapter 8

The 14th of February comes and goes with little fanfare.

Harry forgets to cancel his dinner reservations, forgets to cancel the car, forgets about every other little thing he’d planned for their evening. He can’t bring himself to care. It’s all paid for, anyway - not like he can get any money back. It’s easier to pretend none of it exists. Easier to pretend Louis doesn’t exist.

(He’s wrong though, and he knows it.)

Life goes on.

* * *

Harry finds the beanie on day three. He starts wearing it regularly on day five, after spending too much time avoiding its presence on top of his drawers. He starts dressing like Louis on day eight, in tracksuits and oversized jumpers. A headband. Vans.

It becomes a thing.

He doesn’t put his hair up anymore, because Louis liked it pulled back, and what’s the point in making an effort when it won’t be appreciated properly? So Harry lets the curls flow; they’ve grown past his shoulders now, and their presence is a constant reminder of Louis, how he’d given Harry the confidence to grow it back out again.

Maybe he’ll cut his hair.

Louis would hate that.

(It’s half the reason he does it.)

* * *

On day ten, Harry pulls into his driveway after dropping Beau at school, and there are two people sitting on his doorstep. He frowns, because he looks like shit right now, and he can’t exactly convince his two best friends that he’s doing okay when his red face and puffy eyes give away how recently he’s cried.

(In the car just now, all the way home from the school, after someone asked why he’d driven Beau instead of “her other daddy”.)

He quickly blinks back all remaining tears, wipes his face with the back of his hand and plasters on a smile.

“Why are you both here?” he asks, and it comes out slightly too much like an accusation despite his (ever-so-slightly too-forced) smile.

“Oi,” Niall says. “Are you not happy to see us?”

“I just mean–” he falters, “I just mean you didn’t have to go to all the trouble.”

“Of course we did,” Liam says gently. “It’s not any trouble. It’s never any trouble; not when it’s you.”

“It was a little trouble,” Niall interjects. “Had to leave my boy behind.”

Liam side eyes Niall from his spot next to Harry. “Was that necessary?”

Niall shrugs, and Harry’s not actually offended, because he knows that Shawn gets it, that if he wasn’t in the studio right now he’d be here. He’s probably the one who convinced Niall to go without him. Harry’s not even jealous that he comes second now. Then again, Harry can’t find it in himself to care about much lately; all of his energy is spent putting on a brave face for Beau, and he’s exhausted.

He takes a deep, steadying breath. “How did you know?”

“Gemma,” Niall says.

“I figured.”

“She’s worried about you.”

Harry breathes deep again, torn between annoyance towards his sister and affection for his friends. “Yeah, I know.”

“We’re worried about you as well,” Liam says then.

“Yeah, I know that too.”

Niall stands up off the step then and wraps Harry in a hug. The familiar scent of his cologne envelopes him, but it’s more pleasant than overpowering and Harry leans into the embrace. Liam doesn’t move until Niall laughs and says, “Come here, you. Get in on this.”

The three of them must look ridiculous, three grown men clinging to each other fiercely outside Harry’s house. He doesn’t realise his legs are giving out until Liam tightens his hold; until the only thing keeping him upright is his literal support system, and he lets himself cry again. They don’t call him out on it, just lead him inside until they’re all spooning on Harry’s bed, and it’s not weird, because it’s Liam and Niall and he loves them both so much he could cry. Or, he would, if he wasn’t already in tears.

They stay like that until it’s time to get Beau, and by some unspoken agreement, Liam ends up driving. Niall doesn’t even fight him for the front seat, and weirdly enough, that’s when Harry realises it’s bad. Because there’s nice, there’s his friends temporarily ditching their lives to patch him back up, and then there’s Niall refusing to claim shotgun.

His daughter has never met Niall and Liam before, but Harry’s talked about them enough that he knows she considers them family. She calls them Uncle Niall and Uncle Liam, and Harry’s sad that it’s taken this long for all of his favourite people to meet, but he supposes some good has come out of this whole fucked up situation.

He expects Niall and Liam to stay the weekend, but they stay another night, and then another. It becomes obvious they aren’t planning to leave anytime soon when Niall makes plans for Shawn to fly in next week, and when he walks in on Liam adding his own clothes to Harry’s closet.

Harry pretends to be annoyed, but really he’s so grateful he could cry. He’s been crying a lot lately, so much that it doesn’t phase him anymore. He still doesn’t do it in front of Beau, not after the first night when he’d sat her down and explained to her that Louis wouldn’t be coming back. They’d cried together, and she’s cried since then - Harry’s heard her - but it’s been getting better.

Niall and Liam make themselves at home.

It becomes a thing.

* * *

On day fourteen, they try to make him Talk About It.

That goes about as well as expected. Which is to say, not very well at all. Quite horribly, in fact, because Harry doesn’t fucking _want_ to Talk About It. Because talking about it means it’s real, and Harry doesn’t want it to be real. So he hides.

It doesn’t work.

Liam finds him first, and Harry doesn’t know if that’s better or worse.

He doesn’t talk, and finally Liam gives up and leaves him on the floor. He doesn’t know how long he stays, but he’s still curled in on himself when he hears footsteps enter the room. At first he thinks it’s Liam, back to try to get him to open up some more, but then Niall’s rainbow socks enter his field of vision. When Harry looks up, Niall isn’t smiling; Harry assumes he ran into Liam on his way in. He knows that Niall’s not upset with him, exactly, just disappointed that he’s not being responsive. He feels bad, but not bad enough to stop.

They can learn to deal with it.

If he has to face a Louis-less future, then they can all learn to fucking deal with it.

* * *

He gives up on day 15. Liam’s cornered him in the spare room again - he really needs to find a new hiding spot - and is trying to ply him with inane questions until he gives in.

It’s beginning to work.

“What’s your favourite place you’ve ever been?” Liam asks Harry next, who looks at him shrewdly.

“I thought you were supposed to make me talk about my feelings. I know Niall sent you in here, so cut the crap, Payno.”

“Harry,” Liam says gently, “no. If I was, I would just tell it to you straight, yeah? I was just…I guess I was just curious what you would say. You’ve - the two of you - the two of you have been all over the world, surely you have a favourite? Indulge me?”

“Okay, fine.”

“What is it?”

Harry smirks. “Your mum.”

“Harry—”

“No.”

Liam pouts cutely, and Harry nearly gives in, but doesn’t. “Please?”

“No.”

“It’s this, or your feelings. Which do you want to talk about now?” Liam says next, obviously hoping his switch in tactic will actually work.

It doesn’t. “No.”

“Okay.”

Harry turns to him then. “He’s gone, Liam. Louis. He’s gone.”

“I know, babe.”

“No, _no_ , you don’t know. He’s _gone_ , He’s _left_. He’s gone and he’s left and—” Harry whimpers as Liam pulls him into a hug.

“I do know, H. Trust me, I do. I know more than you think I do.” Liam pauses. Inhales. Continues. “When Zayn…”

“No,” Harry interrupts. “No. We’re not doing this.” He knows he’s acting like a petulant teenager, but he doesn’t care enough to stop. “It’s not the same and you know it. Zayn was my friend, not my—”

“I wasn’t talking about the two of you.”

Oh. _Oh_.

“Oh,” he finally says out loud, a bit stupidly, because he hadn’t been expecting that.

“I loved him, you know? And I still love him. You don’t just suddenly stop loving somebody because they aren’t there anymore. It gets inside you, like a disease,” Liam says. “Eats your heart out.”

Harry’s own heart hurts then, because he’s never heard Liam speak so candidly on the subject, and he feels selfish for letting his own feelings on the subject keep him from checking on his friend.

“I didn’t— ” he starts. “I didn’t… I’m sorry. I’m sorry that happened.” He blinks, trying to will away the tears that are threatening to make an appearance. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

“Don’t be thick,” Liam says. “You were there for me. Just because you weren’t aware of it doesn’t make it any less helpful, yeah?”

“I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“Well, that’s how _I_ say it works.”

“Well, that still isn’t how it works,” Harry says, and he’s in a mood now; he refuses to let Liam have this.

“Too bad, because that _is_ how it works,” Liam practically growls, and Harry is _done_ with this.

It devolves into a wrestling match then, and, as always, Harry finds it hard to take Liam seriously when he’s got him in a headlock. Liam doesn’t give him long to revel in his victory though, because as soon as Harry lets his guard down, he finds himself being flipped onto his stomach with Liam sitting on his back.

“Ow, fuck! Why did you do that?”

“Why did you put me in a headlock?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Because you were annoying me.”

“Same here.”

“I hate you.”

“Yeah,” Liam laughs, “I know.”

“How long are you gonna sit there?”

“I don’t know, when are you going to admit that you miss Louis?”

“Jesus, Li,” Harry sighs. “You know I miss him; there’s nothing to admit.”

“Okay, but why do you miss him?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“ _Harry_.” Liam climbs off him then and lies down next to him.

He sighs. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, Li.”

Liam’s fingers are cool against his forehead as he brushes Harry’s hair back. “Well,” he says, “first you’re going to have to stop being afraid.”

Harry wants to defend himself, wants to tell him that he’s not. But all that comes out is, “I don’t know how.”

“Nobody does. But you know what we do?”

He shakes his head.

“We do it anyway.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Of course it is. It’s really that easy. And it’s really that hard.”

“You’re being annoying.”

“Probably. But you still love me.”

“Do I though?”

“’course you do; we’re brothers, remember?”

Harry gives him a small smile. “Always.” Then he sighs for what feels like the hundredth time today. “I think I’m in love with him, is that what you wanted to hear?”

“You think? Or you know?”

“Don’t be a twat.”

“Do I need to get the jar?”

“This isn’t even your house,” Harry snorts. “Twat.”

Liam doesn’t address his insult again, and Harry almost wishes he would, because he’d much rather continue to drag Liam than elaborate on his previous admission.

“I love him, okay? I’m in love with him, and that’s why I miss him - there’s something missing when he’s gone, he took a part of me with him and I don’t know how to fix that. And it fucking _hurts_ , Liam. It hurts so fucking much I don’t know how I can stand it.”

“That’s your answer, then,” Liam replies.

Harry doesn’t remember the original question, and it must show on his face because he squeezes Harry’s hand one more time and continues, “that’s why I went back, anyway.”

Right. They’re discussing what to do next. He contemplates the answer for a moment before replying. “But how did you know he’d even talk to you again?”

“I didn’t.”

“And you still went.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question; he doesn’t need to.

“Yeah,” he says, “I still went. And he didn’t talk to me again, of course. But I went, and that’s what matters.”

“And what if that happens to me? What if Louis never talks to me again?”

“Then we’ll deal with that. But let’s not worry ourselves with things we can’t control, yeah? He needs time; this is a lot to take on. You remember how hard this all was to deal with in the beginning. I don’t… I don’t blame him for running.”

Harry’s glare is murderous, and Liam backtracks quickly.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m livid with him for leaving you, and I absolutely think he should have dealt with it differently, but our lives used to be pretty shit, you know this,” Liam laughs dryly. “Of course you do, that’s why you ran away, isn’t it?”

Harry nods. “Are you upset with me? For doing that? For leaving you?”

Liam shakes his head, then pauses, seems to change his mind, and nods instead. “It hurt. I understand why you did it, but bloody hell, Harry. It hurt.”

“I know. It hurt me too. But it hurt more to stay. Plus, I had Beau, and I didn’t want to share her with the world, you know? I didn’t want her under that microscope, it wouldn’t have been fair. I wanted something - someone - who was just mine. A family member who wouldn’t show up in a Google search. It wasn’t fair to you or Niall, and trust me, Li, I felt like shit about it for the longest time, but… I really do think I needed that break.”

“I know you did; I think we all did. It was so much in the end, wasn’t it?”

Harry hums in agreement, and buries his head into Liam’s shoulder. “You’re my best friend,” he says quietly. “You and Niall, I just— Thank you for coming here.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Liam says, rubbing his arm soothingly. “Of course we came; you needed us.”

“I did,” he admits, “and I still do. Fuck, I don’t know if I would’ve been able to get through this without you two.”

“Yes, you would have, dummy; you’re strong. And resilient. Look at all you’ve done! Jesus, H, you’ve got a _kid_ , do you know how amazing that is?”

“Of course I do.”

“Of course you do. So don’t put yourself down, yeah? We’re here because you needed us to be, but not because you couldn’t do it on your own.”

“You’re aware that makes no sense, right?”

Liam huffs. “Sometimes I think you’re purposefully obtuse just to be a shit.”

“When have I ever done that?” Harry asks, smiling cheekily. “I have never been a shit one day in my life.”

“Bullshit,” he laughs, and then tilts his head. “Are you going to be okay on your own?”

Harry nods. “I feel a bit better now, thank you, Liam. You were— You were right, talking helped.”

He expects Liam to crow happily and lord his victory over Harry - he loves being told he was right and Harry was wrong - but it never comes. Instead, Liam chucks his chin softly and presses a kiss to his forehead. “I’m glad,” he whispers, and Harry’s so grateful for his friends.

A small part of him is tempted to say, no, he won’t be okay on his own, that Liam should stay, but a larger and much louder part tells him that he can do this, he can get through this and dammit he can be alone for long enough for Liam to go to the shop.

It helps that Miss Kitty entered the room once she sensed Liam was gone - she’s still terrible at warming up to new people, apparently - and he rubs her belly while trying not to think about the one person she’d accepted into their household.

(It doesn’t work.)

* * *

Louis is miserable. Absolutely fucking miserable. And he can’t even be properly upset about it, because it was his choice to leave. He’s the one that left, he’s the one that declared everything to be too much and left. Left Holmes Chapel. Left Beau and Harry and Anne and his little team that he’d come to adore and…

Left Harry.

He fucking left Harry.

He’s miserable.

The feeling never goes away either, as everything seemed to remind him of Harry. Some things were obvious - like walking past a group of lads out drinking and spying a Packers shirt - and some things less so - like how the sunset had tinted the clouds to the exact same shade of pink as Harry’s suit he wore to Niall and Shawn’s wedding. It’s a damn shame too, because Louis used to love sunsets.

Louis used to do a lot of things.

Like work for a call centre.

He used to work for a call centre, and now he doesn’t, not after he walked into the office Monday morning after spending the weekend on Kevin’s couch and promptly quit then and there. It hadn’t been the brightest decision, but Louis wasn’t exactly doing well in the bright decision department during that time.

Hence, the whole Leaving Harry thing.

Bloody hell.

Doncaster hadn’t welcomed him back with open arms—not that he’d expected it to, but he hadn’t expected to feel quite so out of place in the city he once considered home.

Not even a year has passed since he’d moved out, and now he’s back in his childhood bedroom, back in the house he grew up in, surrounded by his family, and everything would be grand if he wasn’t so fucking _miserable_.

But he can’t go back; going back would put his family in danger, and Louis would rather die lonely and miserable with only Clifford to care for him in his old age than to put his family in danger ever again. So, no, he can’t go back. No matter how much he may want to.

(And he really, _really_ , wants to.)

* * *

His talk with Liam had helped, yes, but that didn’t mean Harry was done moping. Not even a little bit. Except this time it wasn’t intentional; he blames ABBA, really.

Technically, this whole bloody situation could be blamed on ABBA; if they hadn’t gone and written _Take a Chance on Me_ , then Harry would’ve never sung it to Louis, which would mean he’d never have had Louis in his life at all. Nevermind the fact that Harry would rather walk out onto stage starkers than give up the time he had with Louis. And also the fact that in a universe where that song had never existed, Harry would have just chosen a different one. Something like…

He can’t even think of something that would convey the exact message he wanted to get across, actually. He’d considered something completely different at first. _Jolene_. Mostly because he’d been dead jealous of the bloke chatting Louis up.

Luckily, at the last minute, he’d decided that choosing that song to sing to a strange man could be perceived as something too close to resembling heterosexual jealousy, and he’d gone for something else. Even spent £200 for his troubles. But it’d been worth every bloody penny, no matter what the judgy woman running the karaoke night had thought.

He still considered her a saint, really, especially since he’d run up there practically begging her to change his song choice at the last moment. He and Gemma had been all ready to duet _Endless Love_ \- a favourite from their childhood - when Harry had spotted the man who he’d soon learn was Louis, and fell head over heels in— Well, not love. Not even lust, really.

Well, a little bit of lust. Mostly, though, he just wanted this man’s attention. Wanted to know him. Wanted to steal him away from the much-less-fit (in Harry’s totally not bias opinion, at least) man who’d been making him laugh. Harry hadn’t liked that; _he_ wanted to be the one to make him laugh. He wanted to see that smile up close, hear that laugh right in his ear.

He wanted to look at that guy - Louis - forever. (Still wants to, if he’s honest.)

“Oh my God,” Gemma had said as soon as she’d caught on, “tell me you aren’t about to do what I think you’re about to do.”

“I’m not,” he’d insisted, and then quickly undone the first three (okay, four) buttons on his shirt - only because he’d been warm, and not because he’d wanted the butterfly on his abdomen to be more visible than he usually allowed.

Anyway, back to the song.

He doesn’t even know what’d drawn him to that particular one, he supposes it was just a happy coincidence that Louis adored the band so much; there had been a moment - a very, very short one - where Harry was certain the universe had played a role in their meeting. Too many coincidences, convenient meetings and timings and events and— But, no, there had been no mystical forces at work. They’d just been lucky.

Until they weren’t. Until the luck had run out.

Until Louis had left him.

Louis had left him, and he still clung to that hurt - though he kept a brave face in front of Beau, he still found himself lying face down on his bedroom carpet in the middle of the day, listening to his vinyl of ABBA Gold and generally feeling sorry for himself.

It didn’t exactly solve anything, but it didn’t hurt as much either. Well, it did, especially track three, but he hadn’t cried this time around.

Much.

To his credit, or maybe as a testament to how much Niall must have sensed he needed some time alone, he’d managed to make it from _Dancing Queen_ all the way to _S.O.S._ which was just wrapping up when Niall had entered the room, guitar in hand.

“Why do you have that?” he asks as soon as he notices, and Niall looks at him like he’s a bit dim.

“Cos I want to play you something. So shut up and listen.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll bring Liam back in and make him sit on your chest,” Niall says, and Harry still doesn’t know how Niall can smile so serenely while still remaining a threat - it’s a mystery that’s haunted him for years.

He shuts up. And he listens. And what he hears shocks him; he’s never known Niall to write something so heartbreaking - hadn’t even known Niall was bloody _capable_ of getting his heart broken.

By the time the song is over, Harry’s got tears in his eyes. He attempts to blink them away, and stares, open-mouthed, at his friend. “What the fuck was that?”

Niall shrugs. “It’s how I dealt with it.”

“Dealt with what?”

“Losing Zayn.”

“Fucking hell, Niall, not you too.”

Niall shrugs again, as if to say “what can you do?” Harry drops his head to his knees and barks a laugh that borders too close to hysterical.

“Bloody hell, was I the only one not in love with Zayn?”

“Probably, yeah. You were, like, immune or something. We thought it was weird.”

“We as in you and Liam?”

“Nah, we as in me, Liam, and Zayn.”

“Zayn thought it was weird that I wasn’t in love with him?”

Niall shrugs. “Not my place to tell you his business.”

“Is that why people believed all those rumours about us? Like how I supposedly ran away to be with him, or whatever?”

Niall shrugs a second time. “Probably.”

“Huh. Weird.”

“Why is it so weird? You know what those fans were like.”

“Well, yeah, just… I didn’t think they actually thought that stuff was real.”

“I mean, not all of them did, but you _knew_ this stuff, Haz, I know you did.”

“No, I mean, yeah, I did. I just… This is a lot to take in.” He chuckles drily. “Anything else you’ve been hiding from me?”

“I didn’t hide this from you,” Niall points out, “you were just really fucking oblivious, is all.”

“Wow, rude,” he snorts, and Niall grins.

“Not rude, don’t mean it in a bad way either, babe, and in all honesty, ‘s probably best you weren’t aware - no reason to give those shippers any more fuel, yeah?”

Harry shrugs. “Still, it would have been nice to just… Maybe it would have left us on better terms after—”

“Jesus, Haz,” Niall says, and Harry can’t help flinching at Niall’s casual use of Louis’ nickname for him. Niall must notice, because he looks apologetic before he starts over. “H, I didn’t come here to make you regret your past, especially not your distant one, yeah? Let’s not do this.”

“To be fair, you were the one to bring it up.”

“And look how well that went.”

“Let’s talk about something else then,” Harry says, and Niall nudges him with his big toe.

“Not until you sit up like a human.”

“I’m just as much of a human on the floor as I am sitting up, Nialler.”

“You know what I mean, arsehole. Besides, I really do want you to hear this song.”

Harry blinks. “You just played me a song.”

“Not that one, a different one. A new one.”

“Are you songwriting again? Like, on purpose?”

“You mean not just to woo pretty boys in bars?” Niall chuckles. “Yeah, I am. Liam and I have been talking about that a lot recently.”

“What, getting the band back together?”

“Well,” Niall hesitates. “No, not really. But it would be fun to be in the studio again; for me, at least. And Liam as well. I’m not telling you this to put pressure on you either,” he says quickly, probably picking up on the way Harry’s breathing has picked up, unintentionally panicking at the thought of performing again. Which is ridiculous, really. The stage is practically his home; he’d done that - performed - for almost five years of his life. It’s his thing, it’s what he does. Well, did.

It shouldn’t scare him as much as it does.

The last thing he wants to do is admit that to Niall, though. Especially considering all the other things going on in his world that his friends feel sorry for him about. He will probably. Eventually. He’s never been good at keeping secrets - especially from the two of them - just… Just not yet.

“That sounds like fun,” he says instead, forcing just a bit too much cheerfulness into his tone, too bright to sound natural, and while Niall side-eyes him suspiciously, he lets Harry get away with the lie.

“So, ready to hear it?” he asks, and Harry nods, because honestly, he is. Even if the thought of doing it himself is overwhelming, he still loves hearing his friends sing, play instruments, do anything really. Fuck, he loves his friends. He’s got the best friends. He’s bloody lucky, he is.

It’s not until later, when Niall’s played him almost an album’s worth of songs, that he remembers just how much he’s _not_.

* * *

Harry tosses and turns that night, unable to get both Niall’s and Liam’s words out of his mind. Groaning, he rolls over, pulling the blanket up and over his head and burying his face in the pillow. Finally, he turns his head to the side and tries once more to get in a comfortable enough position for sleep, eventually settling on starfishing right in the middle of the mattress. Louis used to hate when he did that. If Harry concentrates hard enough he can hear Louis moaning about it next to his ear.

He holds his breath until the phantom sounds are gone and he finally lets himself sleep. He dreams of Louis, and it’s not the first time since he left, but it’s the first time Louis’ actually spoken. Harry doesn’t want to wake up, because when he wakes up, Louis will be gone. It hurts the same each time.

He begins to dread his dreams.

* * *

Louis quit smoking when he moved to Holmes Chapel.

Living on his own meant cutting back on expenses, and those were the first to go.

It hadn’t been easy, but he’d managed to kick the habit, only feeling a craving every now and then - never enough to make him seriously consider picking one up.

Now, as he takes a drag of his first cigarette in five months, he wonders why he ever gave this up.

Right. The cost.

Well, that doesn’t matter anymore. Because he’s back home now, doesn’t have to worry about things like rent or groceries. Or smelling like smoke in front of…

Nope, not going there.

He doesn’t even have to worry about smoke breaks at work either; he works from home now, actually. The company must have been desperate to keep him if he’d been allowed to do this, if _they_ were the ones to suggest it. It’s not too bad, really, taking phone calls most of the day. It’s a good distraction. From both his thoughts and his sisters’ invasive questions. They’ve even got Dan on their side; Louis’ been subject to more than a few attempts at a ‘heart to heart’ - something Louis would normally appreciate, because he truly does appreciate Dan’s advice, just… This time is different. For reasons he doesn’t know how to articulate. It just is.

It is what it is. And what it is is…

It’s shit.

Lottie finds him just as he’s lighting up his second (okay, third) cigarette. He swears, because he’d gone all the way down the street to the corner to avoid being seen by any of his family. Which obviously hadn’t been far enough if Lottie was able to find him so easily. He scowls and watches the red tip burn closer and closer to his fingers.

“How did you know I was here?”

She snorts. “You think you were the only one with a secret habit?”

Louis narrows his eyes. “I don’t believe you.”

She shrugs, and then holds her hand out in a wordless request. Louis shakes his head. “Buy your own.”

“Nah,” she says, and snatches the beat up carton from his back pocket. The invasion deepens his scowl, and he considers leaving her here, but he wants to finish his cigarette. So he stays.

They smoke in silence, and Lottie waits until he’s crushing the butt under his trainer to bring up the subject he _knows_ she’s been dying to ambush him about.

“Are you really never going to speak to him again?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lots,” he replies. “I talk to Dan all the time.”

“Not Dan, you twat.”

“I can’t believe you’re accusing me of icing out me only brother.”

“Fucking _hell_ , Lou; you know who I mean.”

He reaches back for the nearly empty carton, and yelps when he feels a slap.

“What the fuck!”

“You can’t keep avoiding this forever. Be an adult about this, yeah?”

“I’m not avoiding anything, and I don’t have to be an adult about… I did nothing wrong.”

“Try telling Harry that,” she mutters under her breath, but not quietly enough that Louis doesn’t overhear.

“You know nothing about what Harry’s going through,” he spits, too harshly for the situation, but harsh enough to satisfy the clench in his chest that made itself known the moment Lottie mentioned his name.

“I know enough to know he’s miserable.”

“Yeah? How would you even know that?”

“Can’t tell you that,” she says mysteriously. “I just know that you leaving did nothing to fix the situation.”

“It was never about ‘fixing the situation’, it was about protecting my family from the vultures.”

“And you couldn’t do that without leaving Harry?”

“Harry was the reason they were there in the first place.”

“What the hell are you talking about? You think he _wanted_ that?”

Louis shrugs. “He didn’t seem to not want it. He was so fucking calm about it all, like it wasn’t a big deal; like it wasn’t the scariest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Bloody _fu_ — Jesus— Lou! You shit! You little _shit_! How could you say that?”

Louis can’t help the look of surprise that crosses his face at the intensity of her outburst. “Aren’t you supposed to be on my side?”

“Not when you accuse Harry of wanting the paps stalking him! Stalking Beau! Stalking _you_! What the fuck? He was miserable!”

“Again, how the _fuck_ do you know that?”

“ _Again_ , I can’t tell you, just— Do you even know why they were there? The media? The fans? Do you know how they knew where he was?”

“I assume someone let it slip; probably the guy from—”

“It was one of your prick friends, Lou.”

“ _What_?”

“Hold on,” she amends quickly, “none of your actual ones, I don’t even remember the name, I just know what I was told, and I know it happened on New Year’s Eve.”

“And how do you know _that_?”

“Because that’s the picture they leaked? The one of you two eating each others’ faces off at midnight.”

Louis blood runs cold then; he’d truly had no idea. He’s nauseated at the thought that someone stole their private moment and used it against them. “Lottie, I need you to remember who it is.”

She shakes her head. “Even if I could find that out, I wouldn’t tell you. You’d only make it worse.”

“ _Lottie_ ,” he says, voice hard, quiet. “I need to know who did this to us.”

“Us? You’re an us again?”

“You bloody well know that’s not what I meant.” He sighs in frustration. “You keep twisting my words.”

“It’s making you think, though, right? It’s working?”

“No, nothing’s working,” he says. “Now, please leave.”

“Nah, I don’t think I will.”

“Fine,” he snaps. “Then _I’ll_ leave.”

“You do that,” she says. And then, “You’re fucking good at it, aren’t you?”

He doesn’t turn around when he lifts his arm up, middle finger perfectly visible as he stalks off in the direction of the house. His house. It’s his house. His only house, the only place he calls home.

The _only_ place.

Louis sighs, because if he can’t even convince Lottie of this, how the fuck is he going to convince himself?

* * *

_It’s one of those dreams where you know you’re dreaming, but you aren’t able to control anything around you. They’re always a mixed bag, in Harry’s opinion. Sometimes good, sometimes bad. Tonight feels like a bit of both._

_Melancholy._

_He starts out as a bird. He’s flying, feeling like he’s searching for something. Feeling like he’s falling, which strikes him as odd, because he’s a bird, and surely birds don’t just fall out of the sky like this._

_He falls._

_He falls, and he hits something hard. He’s human now, and he’s on the wooden deck of a ship. He’s naked, completely defenceless, but he doesn’t feel that way. Something pulls him forward, a sense that he needs to find something, that he’s not in the right place. He’s searching for something he doesn’t know how to find, but he can use this compass that’s just appeared in his hand. At first glance, it appears to be an ordinary compass, only notable because of its old age, but upon further inspection, Harry discovers that instead of north, the compass is pointing to home._

_Harry doesn’t know where that is, but he’s going to go there._

_Louis appears. It should be a shock, but it isn’t._

_He only looks away for one second, but he instantly knows the compass is gone. Only it’s not gone, it’s on Louis’ arm. And Louis’ arm is in his hands, attached to the rest of Louis, who’s standing in front of Harry and saying something he can’t hear. It sounds like Louis’ trying to tell him something while he’s underwater, and Harry wonders if he’s drowning. Or maybe he’s already drowned._

_At this point, nothing would surprise him._

_He blinks in surprised when he notices that the compass isn’t the only tattoo on Louis. His arms are littered with them, most notably, a large bird with its wings clipped. It shouldn’t be able to take flight, but somehow, Harry knows it can. He watches as Louis becomes the bird and leaves him._

Damn, _he thinks, I wish I could fly._

_And, despite the fact that he started this journey as a bird - he’s almost positive that happened - he’s stuck as a human now. unable to follow Louis home._

_Damn, I wish I could fly_. 

And Harry wakes up.

Unfortunately, he wakes up at the tail end of a Hollyoaks omnibus - he wasn’t aware the bloody show was even going on still - just in time to catch two characters snogging heavily against a door. He and Louis used to snog against doors. How dare these two people - honestly, he’s got no idea who they are, it’s been so long since he’s caught an episode - be snogging in front of him like that? It’s impolite, is what it is.

He turns the telly off then, glaring at the set like it’s offended him personally. (And, honestly? It kind of did.)

A quick glance at his phone informs him that the sun’ll be coming up shortly - of course his odd dream came at the tail end of his slumber - so Harry decides it’s not worth trying to fall asleep.

He’s also got some things to unpack. Like what the fuck that dream was, and what it means.

Except… Well, he knows, doesn’t he? He knows exactly what that was.

Because it’s not exactly a new realisation, is it? The thought had been swimming around in the back of his mind for a while, but now it’s front and centre, loudly asserting itself and making him wish he’d fought harder to get Louis to stay.

Harry loves Louis.

Oh, god. Oh, fuck.

He loves him. He _love_ s him.

Harry loves Louis. And now Louis is gone.

_Gone_.

He’s in love with Louis, and he doesn’t know when exactly he let himself fall, but he knows that it was never like falling at all, no. Instead, it was like walking into a house and suddenly realising you’re home; like you were meant to be there all along.

_Home._

Louis is _home_. Louis is _his_ home. And now his home is gone.

Harry wants to go back. He wants his home back.

He wants Louis back.

_I wish I could fly._

Lyrics begin to form in his mind, and Harry settles in, prepared to ride this inspiration as far as it will take him. The clacking of the typewriter keys calms him, soothes the restlessness he’s felt since waking up from that dream.

Liam and Niall were right - not that he’ll ever admit that to their faces. He needed this. This is what he knows. This is what he’s good at.

This is how he can fix everything.

_I wish I could fly._

* * *

The sun is just beginning to rise when the noise begins. It’s soft at first; tentative little chirps that quickly escalate into a full-blown chorus of screeches that shatter Harry’s concentration, forcing him to stop typing mid-sentence. He sighs in frustration.

Bloody birds.

Harry doesn’t want to quit, but the birds have broken whatever spell he was under. He feels better now that he’s written, like he’d thrown his jumbled emotions onto a canvas to be rearranged into something he could understand.

He quits, because it’s officially morning now, and morning means he has to be responsible, has to be the parent. That, at least, hasn’t changed in Louis’ absence.

It’s one of only a few things.

Harry twists in his chair, first to the right, then the left, winces as his back twinges at the movement. He really needs to get a new chair for his desk, something more ergonomic and easier on his back. Louis had been bugging him for weeks to do so after hearing Harry complain about his sore back one too many times.

He frowns. He doesn’t want to think about Louis right now.

(Nevermind the fact that he’d just been thinking about Louis a _lot_.)

He distracts himself by going on a hunt for some paracetamol, forcing himself to think of anything that isn’t Louis.

It doesn’t work, of course, but he can still pat himself on the back for his valiant effort. And try again later. And again. And again.

Sometimes Harry wishes he weren’t so persistent. Then again, he thinks, if he wasn’t, then he never would have landed Louis in the first place.

Then again, he thinks, maybe that would’ve been a good thing.

* * *

The morning before Niall and Liam are meant to leave, Harry wakes up spooned in between the two of them. He doesn’t remember falling asleep this way, but the headache that hits as soon as he attempts to open his eyes is a fun reminder of how much he’d had to drink the night before. Judging by the noises coming from either side of him, his friends are in similar states.

Shawn calls Niall before the three of them have a chance to get out of bed, and luckily he finds the sight of his husband being spooned by two half-naked men to be more amusing than upsetting - not that Harry thinks Niall would’ve put up with anyone that would actually have a problem with that - and nearly drops the phone because he’s laughing so hard.

“You guys look like kittens,” he finally manages to get out, still fighting leftover giggles.

Niall puffs his chest out. “Excuse you, I am a fierce and powerful Lion.”

“Me too,” Liam jumps in.

“Not me,” Harry says, “I’m man enough to admit I’m a kitten.”

“I wanna be a kitten, too!” he hears Beau say, and it’s only a split second warning before she’s launching herself onto the bed, landing heavily on Harry’s stomach and making him flail his arms, one of which hits Liam in the face, who responds by swatting Harry right back. This quickly turns into a slap fight between the two of them, Niall in the middle and Beau cheering for both sides.

In the end, he’s forced to surrender, only because it’s getting late and Beau’s got school. His excuse isn’t accepted by Liam, however, who lords the victory over Harry up until he’s about to depart, when he pulls Harry in for a crushing hug and a smacking kiss on the cheek.

“You’ll be okay, yeah? You can get through this; you’re strong, H, I know it. You know it. Niall knows it. We all know it, okay?”

Harry nods, throat growing tight, and Niall joins in on their hug next, nuzzling Harry’s shoulder in his familiar, comforting way. He spies Miss Kitty darting through the door and out the cat flap quickly, and he chuckles, waiting for the telltale sound of clacking nails as Clifford comes racing behind her. Only it doesn’t come, because Clifford isn’t here. Clifford isn’t here because Louis isn’t here, and that thought has him clinging to his friends even tighter, fervently wishing they didn’t have to leave, but aware that they’ve got to return to their own lives.

Being an adult sucks that way, Harry thinks. Adulthood means responsibility, but adulthood also brought him good things. Like his daughter. Like his independence. Like…

Nope, just those things. Nothing else. Just those.

Nothing else.

* * *

Louis can’t recall where he heard it from, but he finds out Harry’s started playing at small clubs around Manchester, little casual open mics that don’t seem to grab too much attention. From what he can tell, it’s not something that attracts his usual fans. He’s told Harry’s good. He’s told he should check out the show in person.

So that’s what he does.

* * *

The venue Harry’s playing at is standing room only, and since Louis arrived late, he keeps having to go up on his tiptoes to see what’s happening on the stage. According to the website, Harry’s supposed to be on next, after a band with a name Louis’ surprised they’re allowed to display in a public place.

They’re loud, this group; people are cheering and singing along and when the act finally ends, the entire place is in good spirits. It’s obvious they’re expecting something similar from Harry, but when he walks on stage it becomes apparent that this will be something different. He’s dressed in soft, light wash jeans and a grey hoodie that swallows his frame. It’s nothing Harry wouldn’t wear around the house, but Louis would’ve expected him to put more effort in when he’s in front of a crowd.  
Louis recognises the beanie he’s wearing almost instantly. Because it’s _his._

Harry’s wearing his beanie, the dark blue, excessively floppy one that Harry used to tease him endlessly for wearing indoors. Louis doesn’t remember Harry wearing a beanie once the entire time they’d known each other (which, admittedly, hadn’t been exceptionally long) but now he’s here now, on stage, playing the piano and _wearing Louis’ favourite beanie_.

And then, he isn’t. He’s taking it off and setting it down next to him on the piano bench, and Louis’ breath catches. Because he was so distracted by the beanie that he didn’t notice the lack of long brown curls.

Harry’s cut his hair.

It’s barely been a fucking month, yet Louis feels further away from Harry than he’s ever been. He doesn’t know this Harry, this stranger in front of him with hair so short it doesn’t even curl, and a serious look on his face.

And then he begins to play.

_If I could fly, I’d be coming right back home to you_

The buzz of the crowd dies off then, the mood changing dramatically as it becomes obvious that this song isn’t meant for dancing.

_I think I might give up everything, just ask me to_

It’s nothing Louis’ heard before, doesn’t sound like a Status Single song; he wonders briefly if Harry’s written it himself.

_Pay attention, I hope that you listen, cause I let my guard down_

No. There’s no way.

_Right now I'm completely defenceless_

He’s unprepared for the stabbing pain he feels in his chest once he realises who Harry’s singing to. Because it’s _him_ , he’s sure of it. Harry’s singing to Louis, just like he was back in August, but he doesn’t know Louis is there and Louis’ heart is aching. For Harry. For himself. For everything that’s been taken from them.

_For your eyes only, I'll show you my heart_

Harry’s fingers are flying across the keys now, his voice full of emotion, and Louis can’t breathe. The song tears into him until he’s raw and vulnerable; it’s full of longing, and pain, and the ache that comes with being away from the one you love. It’s beautiful, and terrible, and so lovely. So Harry. So very, very Harry and Louis loves it. Loves Harry.

_For when you're lonely, and forget who you are_

And Harry loves him.

_I'm missing half of me when we're apart_

He needs to leave.

_Now you know me_ ,

He doesn’t leave.

_for your eyes only_

He can’t.

_for your eyes only_

Louis stays frozen, standing there in the back of the room, blinking back tears until the song is mercifully, blessedly, finally, over. Harry looks like he’s about to stand, and Louis knows it’s time to make his escape. He slips out the back under the cover of cheers and applause, almost running to his car in his desperation to get away.

Harry misses him.

It takes three tries to finally get the key in the ignition, and his tyres squeal as he races out of the car park. He drives and drives and drives, determined not to cry, the ache in his chest still present. It feels tight, hurts so bad that he almost pulls over. But he doesn’t.

He stops by McDonald’s on the way home. It reminds him of Harry.

He can’t finish his burger.

* * *

Louis’ heart is still pounding when he pulls into the driveway. His knees are shaking as he turns the engine off and his hands tingle when he relaxes his grip on the steering wheel. He walks up to the house in a daze, unable to fully process what he’d seen.

None of his siblings are there to greet him and Louis is thankful for that. He doesn’t want to see anyone right now. He just wants to be alone. Needs some time to collect his thoughts. Needs to sleep.

He makes his way up the stairs to his room. Once there, he doesn’t even bother to get ready for bed: just strips down and climbs underneath the covers. The sheets are cool against his skin and he shivers slightly, pulling his covers tighter.

He tosses and turns for a few hours, unable to get the vision of Harry sat at the piano out of his head. He groans and rolls over, pulling the blanket up and over his head and burying his face in his pillow. Finally, Louis turns his head to the side and tries once more to get comfortable enough to sleep.

It’s not until after he feels the dampness against his cheek that he realises he’s crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (i would like to state for the record that tacom!harry sang iicf before actual!harry and i have the screenshots to back it up lmao)


	9. Chapter 9

“You’re doing _what_?”

Harry winces at his mum’s tone. He’d been expecting, well, not quite a positive reaction, but he definitely hadn’t expected, well, this one. “Going to LA. We’re going to - moving to, actually - LA.”

“After all the fuss you made about giving Beau stability? And now you’re just going to uproot her again? Harry, why? Why would you do this?”

“Well, Niall, Liam and I have been writing together again, and if we go there then we can—”

She cuts him off. “That’s ridiculous. There’s no way I can let you do that.”

“ _Let me_? You’re not her parent, you can’t make this decision for me.” Harry snaps, regretting the words instantly once he sees his mum's shocked face. He feels guilty, but not guilty enough to apologise, even as she fixes him with a glare that would have had his knees shaking as a child. They stare each other down for a moment; his mum is the first to break, which is unusual. It makes Harry feel almost grown up. Never mind the fact that at 32, he actually _is_ grown up, but he knows that to his mum he’ll always be the baby.

Right now, though, he needs her to see him as an adult.

“We’re going.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m sorry, Mum, I know where you’re coming from, but I’ve made up my mind.”

“Have you discussed it with Beau yet?”

He nods. “She’s okay with it.”

“Of course she’ll tell you that; you’re her father and she doesn’t want to disappoint you.”

Harry frowns, because he’d been sure that Beau was really okay with it. She’d been fine every other time they moved, surely this time wouldn’t be any different.

Right?

“I trust my daughter to be honest with me,” he says. “She’s old enough to speak her mind.”

His mum rolls her eyes, but smiles to let him know she’s not actually annoyed with him. “If you say so, H.”

“So, you’re okay with this? You’re not upset with me for going?”

“Of course I’m upset, love,” she says, and quickly continues when his face falls. “Just because I don’t like it doesn’t mean I’m not going to support you. Of course I’ll always support you, even if what you’re doing is… I don’t want to say mad…”

“Then don’t,” he says, and she laughs.

“Okay, I won’t. On one condition.”

“Yeah?”

She smirks. “You have to be to the one to break it to Gemma.”

He groans, already dreading the conversation.

(It’s nearly enough to convince him to stay.)

* * *

Louis blames Lottie and Fizzy equally for the fact that Phoebe and Daisy have apparently decided they’re too old for a simple family celebration at home, that, at 17 - well, very nearly - they want to go _out_. And ‘out’ apparently translates to the four of them - Lottie, Fizzy, Phoebe and Daisy (The younger twins were deemed too, well, young for this) - taking an hour and a half train ride (“it’s more fun this way, Lou, we won’t need to choose a designated driver”) to Manchester at the twins’ request.

He doesn’t believe for a second that they came up with this plan on their own. Hence the blaming his older sisters. Which has done nothing to discourage them, unfortunately, and Louis groans from his spot on Phoebe's bed where he’d flopped down after finishing his own going-out primp routine. (What? It’s not like he’s not going to put in an effort to look good, even if he doesn’t want to go. Like, at all. Manchester is too close to… It’s just too close, okay?)

“Why do we need to go all the way to Manchester?” he complains.

“Because there’s nothing to do here.”

“What are you talking about? We’ve got the Donny Dome!”

“I’m not having my birthday there.”

“Me neither,” Phoebe chimes in, and Louis frowns.

“When did you two get too good for the Donny Dome?”

“We’ve always been too good for that place.”

“Yeah, it’s lame.”

“You’re breaking my heart, you are. Is that what you want? To break your brother’s heart?”

The twins roll their eyes in sync; Louis still doesn’t know how they manage to do that, but it’s effective at getting the message across anyway. Doubly so, even.

He snorts at his own joke, and then schools his face back into a disappointed frown. “I get it,” he cries out dramatically. “You’re too good for the Donny Dome.”

“Yeah, we are. We made that clear.”

“You’re too good for your brother.”

“Stop being weird, Lou.”

“Never!”

Dan sticks his head into the room. “Louis, are you bothering your sisters?”

“No,” he says.

“Yeah,” Phoebe says at the same time, and Dan shakes his head.

“How are you older than them?” he chuckles, and Louis pulls a face.

“Who says I am?”

Lottie appears next to Dan then, followed shortly by Fizzy, who snorts and asks, “Is Lou being weird again?”

“Yes,” everyone but Louis answers back, and Louis clutches his chest dramatically.

“Oi, you lot, you know I can hear you.”

“We’re aware,” Lottie says flippantly, and goes to sit at the twins’ vanity to work on her eye makeup with the pencil Louis hadn’t even realised she’d been holding.

“Yet that doesn’t stop you from gossiping,” he points out.

“Of course not; do you even know us?”

“Sometimes wish I didn’t,” he grumbles, not meaning it one bit, which they’re all perfectly aware of. Fizzy still reaches over to flick him on the cheek, however, causing him to yelp loud enough that Lottie jumps and fucks up her eyeliner.

“Lou!”

“What? That was all Fiz!”

“No it wasn’t,” she insists, and Lottie grumbles.

“I don’t care who it was, but now I have to start over again,” she informs them, earning a collective groan from the group behind her.

“We’ll be so late!” Phoebe cries.

“Late for what?” Louis asks, suspicious now. “Where exactly are we going?”

Daisy grins while Phoebe rolls her eyes. “We’re going out for karaoke, obviously,” she says, and it takes Louis a moment to fully register her words, and then…

Oh, bloody buggering _fuck_.

* * *

In retrospect, Harry should have known something was up the moment Gemma informed him they were going to Manchester.

“But we can do that here,” he’d complained, but to no avail. She’d even been crafty enough to go to his mum first and arrange for Beau to stay over there for the night, ridding him of his only good excuse for not accompanying her on her crazy quest for karaoke that apparently has to take place in another bloody city.

“I still don’t understand why we have to drive for half an hour just so you can embarrass yourself on stage in front of everyone,” he huffs, yelping when Gemma pinches his arm.

“I’m not going to be the one embarrassing myself, little brother.”

“I’m not going up there on my own,” he says quickly, now suspicious of the much-too-innocent smile she’s been sporting for the better part of the evening.

“Never said you were.”

“You’ll be there with me, right? Gemma?” He turns around when she doesn't respond, only to find her halfway across the room already, presumably adding the two of them to the queue. The place is fairly crowded, which is to be expected considering it’s Friday night. Most of the patrons look to be about university age, and Harry can’t help but feel like he sticks out like a sore thumb. Or a nark. If the situation were reversed, he knows he’d think the random 30-something-year-old in the popular uni hangout was a nark.

He’s probably just projecting. Not that it makes him feel any better. If anything, it makes him feel worse. Or maybe it’s just because being surrounded by a younger crowd sends his thoughts immediately to Louis. These are Louis’ people. He doesn’t belong here.

Suddenly, all he wants to do is go home. He starts preparing an excuse for Gemma when he spots her again. She’s waving him over to the steps - this place has a much nicer set up than the pub back home - where she’s standing with a man he doesn’t recognise. He’s worried for a moment that Gemma’s about to leave him here, but then he notices a name tag and assumes the man works here. Which still doesn’t explain why _he’s_ the one informing Harry what song he’ll be performing, (He’s going to murder Gemma for picking this one) and _he’s_ the one taking Harry’s arm to guide him up the stairs. He stands firm though, until Gemma’s pushing on his back and all he can think about it how he really needs to stop letting her bully him into things. Like, really really. Especially when they lead him here, up on the stage with someone standing to his left who is definitely _not_ his sister.

No.

_No_.

Harry’s throat feels tight, and everything is hot. Louis is here, in this pub, standing next to him on the stage where they’re apparently going to sing together. Except… Except not. Because Harry can’t. He can’t do this. Judging by the look on Louis’ face, he’s just as surprised as Harry. This doesn’t make him feel better.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Louis hisses, and Harry opens his mouth to answer just as the song starts up.

At the last minute, he decides to miss his cue in favour of glaring at Louis. “What the fuck am I doing here? More like what the fuck are you doing here?”

“Celebrating the twins’ birthday. What the fuck are _you_ doing here?”

“You just asked that.”

“And you didn’t answer. So.”

“So.”

Confused murmurs start up in the audience as the music keeps playing and neither of them start singing. Harry hears Gemma frantically saying… Something that he can’t hear over the sound of blood rushing in his ears, over the sound of his pounding heart. How can he focus on anyone but Louis right now, the way looking at his boy’s face sends frenzied butterflies to the pit of his stomach? How can he focus on anything ever when all of his brainpower is currently being used to not rush forward and cover Louis’ mouth with his own?

Well, the fact that it would probably earn him a punch is a pretty good deterrent.

Still.

And then Louis does the absolute last thing Harry expects him to do. Somehow Harry’s managed to miss the entirety of Danny’s first verse, and now Louis’ looking him directly in the eye as he saunters closer.

You better shape up, ‘cause I need a man, he starts, and his voice is weaker than Harry’s used to, until it’s not, and Louis looks completely confident now, crowding into Harry’s space.

And my heart is set on you

Harry barely has time to register the warmth of Louis’ palm on his chest before he’s being shoved backwards. He stumbles, somehow manages not to fall, and stares dumbly at Louis’ retreating back. Definitely not his arse.

Okay, maybe a little bit at his arse. But he can’t be blamed for that, not when Louis’ jeans are clinging to his skin like that.

And then Louis’ in front of him again, a cocky expression on his face and Harry realises it’s his part again, so he does the only thing he can think of right now.

(Well, one of them. But he’s fairly certain that running away is not the smart choice at this moment.)

He holds Louis’ gaze, wanting to make sure this is what he’s expected to do, and then they’re both singing and Harry has no idea what he’s doing as he pretends to chase Louis around the stage. They sing back and forth, so into their respective characters that Harry almost forgets they have an audience at all until he realises the crowd has joined in on the “you’re the one that I want”s, which is odd, but not unpleasant.

Once the song is over, once it comes time for Sandy and Danny to enter the flying car - and, oh, how Harry wishes he had one of those right about now - Louis reaches for Harry’s hand, who allows it, and they both bow dramatically while each breathing heavily.

The applause is as deafening as it is unexpected, and Harry lets Louis pull him into two more bows before he tugs the other man offstage, away from prying eyes, completely forgetting about who might be waiting in the wings.

“That was fun,” Harry manages to get out while it’s still just the two of them.

“Tell me about it… stud,” Louis replies, voice breathy in a way that makes Harry audibly gulp.

He manages to collect himself before they’re surrounded by sisters, somehow finding themselves in the centre of a very squishy group hug. Harry’s bracing himself for the awkwardness that’s sure to follow him being pressed up against Louis like this, but it never comes. Instead, Louis’ still giving him the small smile he’s worn ever since the song ended, and Harry’s butterflies are out in full force. Logically, he knows that nothing has been fixed, that Louis still isn’t his. That Louis might not even want him anymore.

Even if he did, Harry reminds himself, it won’t work out. He could never ask Louis to move to LA with him. If the invasive fans and paps and media were overwhelming here, then he’d have the worst time there, where all of that is the norm, just part of the culture. So, no, Harry wouldn’t do that to him, doesn’t even feel right mentioning the possibility.

Again, he reminds himself that none of this means Louis’ changed his mind, that Louis wants to be with him again. It’s difficult not to dwell on the matter, but he doesn’t have much of a chance to properly mope because he and Louis are unexpectedly being ushered back on stage by Gemma, Lottie, and Fizzy. The twins are nowhere to be seen, until Harry looks out at the crowd to see them sitting at a table, looking just as lost and confused as he feels right now.

“What’s happening?” he whispers to Louis, who shrugs.

“Kinda figured I’d just go with it, really. Doesn’t seem like we’ve got much of a choice.”

“No, no it really doesn’t.”

“That’s because you don’t,” Gemma says from behind him. “Now get ready to sing again, boys, because you’re on.”

Harry plants his feet, not budging an inch even has Gemma pushes at his back. “What?”

At the same time, Louis’ head snaps back to stare at his own sisters in confusion. “Wait…”

“Relax, spoilsports, we’ll be there too,” Lottie says, and now Harry’s really concerned, but also extremely looking forward to the kind of hot mess that’s guaranteed to steam from their little group performance. He isn’t even sure the stage is enough to fit the five of them, especially if they plan to dance at all. He figures that’s not in their plans until the song starts, and suddenly it all makes sense in context, because he remembers Louis mentioning that the older twins are turning 17 this year, and of course their sisters have chosen Dancing Queen to commemorate the occasion, as cliche as it is.

It’s also kind of adorable, to be honest. Even if they’re constantly bumping elbows with each other throughout the entire performance, it’s still adorable. The twins don’t seem to feel the same, though, and look proper embarrassed to be sung to like this, but Harry figures it’s a rite of passage of sorts. Plus, teenagers are embarrassed by almost everything. Harry can’t wait until Beau is that age, although he suspects she’ll probably handle that time of her life with a more mature worldview. Then again, maybe not. It’s still something to look forward to, however, and he finds himself wondering what it’d be like to teach Beau how to drive when Louis elbows him sharply in the ribs.

“Fucking ouch!” he yelps. “What the hell was that for?”

Louis jerks his head to the person standing just off stage. “It’s their turn, we gotta get off the stage.”

“Oh. Right, yeah. Sorry mate!” he calls to the person, and they just wave it off with a friendly smile. He follows Louis across the stage floor to the stairs on the other side, bumping into him at the bottom when Louis stops abruptly to turn and face him. He reaches up to steady Harry before he says, completely unprompted, “I am happy, you know. To see you. I know you might think I’m not, but I am.”

“Yeah?” Harry asks, even though he hadn’t been too worried, not after the evening had worn on.

“Yeah,” he replies, and starts walking again. He doesn’t ask Harry to follow him, but he does anyway. When he isn’t told off for it, he figures Louis wants him there, and it makes him happier than it should. He realises that taking Louis away from his twin sisters’ birthday celebration probably isn’t the best way to get back on his good side, but when he looks back at their group, he receives ten thumbs ups, and reasons that it’s probably okay. (And begins to heavily suspect he’s been set up.)

“So,” Louis says, once they find a table to sit down at, “how are you?”

Harry sits down in the chair across from Louis. “Fine,” he replies, perhaps a little too soon. Louis raises an eyebrow like he doesn’t quite believe Harry, but moves on.

“How’s Beau?”

“Beau is also fine.”

“That’s good.”

“Yes, it is. Actually, um…” Harry clears his throat. And then again. “Ermm, we— Beau and I, me and Beau, whatever— We’re leaving. For LA.”

“Oh,” Louis says, “well, when will you be back?”

“That’s the thing… Um… We won’t? I mean, we’ll come back for Christmas and stuff, but, like… We’re not going to… We’re not going to live here anymore.”

“You’re moving?”

“Yes.”

“Moving?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“I’m telling you right now?”

“How long have you been planning this?”

“Not long. After you left, actually. I mean, it was a bit long - it was a little bit, I mean. It was a little bit after you left. I picked up songwriting again.”

“I know,” Louis says quietly.

“What?”

“I know. I went to see you. I heard the song.”

“Shit.”

Louis chuckles dryly. “Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you… You didn’t say— Did you hate it? Is that why you didn’t let me know you were there?”

Louis smiles ruefully. “‘s the opposite really. I loved it, it, uh, it made me realise some things that were pretty overwhelming, that I didn’t know how to handle, and I knew if I went up to you, if I tried talking— I knew if I came back I wouldn’t be able to leave again,” Louis finally says, and Harry has flashes of his dream then; he sees the bird he knows is meant to be Louis flying away, and he feels helpless to stop it, both in the dream and right now, here in this pub.

The tattoo bird reminds him of that day at the pool in Toronto, when Louis first expressed interest in getting a tattoo, and then the time in the bath, when they made plans to visit a parlour.

“You never got the tattoo,” he says, and Louis looks down like he needed a reminder of his bare arms.

“We were supposed to get them together, remember?” His voice is quiet, but the words still echo in Harry’s ears as if he’d shouted them.

“I know,” he says a bit helplessly, “I’m sorry, I— Everything just— I’m sorry.” Harry doesn’t know why he’s apologizing, it’s not like it will fix anything, but Louis looks so sad. He would say anything - do anything - to keep that expression off his face. It stings to know that he’s the one who put it there.

“Don’t apologize,” he replies, “it’s not your fault, you didn’t do anything wrong. I was the stubborn one. I was the one who left.”

Harry goes to hug Louis, who takes a step back. Suddenly, Harry feels a lot less sure of himself and the certainty that he and Louis are really okay again. A pit settles into his stomach and he fakes a smile. “Well, I must be off!” he says in a weirdly formal manner that makes even him cringe.

He can feel Louis’ eyes on him as he exits the pub, but he’s determined not to turn around, not even when he hears the familiar sound of Gemma’s heels clicking against the pavement. He speeds up, and so does she. He speeds up again and Gemma stops. They continue this dance until Gemma growls in frustration and calls out, “Do you want to have to explain to Mum how I broke my neck chasing after you in stilettos? On cobblestones? Is that what you want, little brother? For Mum to be cross with you?”

“No,” he mumbles back.

“What was that?”

“I said no. No, I don’t want that. Any of that.”

“Then slow the fuck down and listen to me.”

“Why? You don’t have anything to say that Mum hasn’t already brought up. You too, actually,” he says, remembering the way Gemma had practically lectured his ear off when he’d told her about his plans. “You think I’m making a mistake going to LA,” he finishes, and finds himself jutting his chin out in a silent challenge, daring her to try to change his mind again.

“I’ve already said my piece on that topic. This isn’t about that, and you know it.”

“I don’t want to talk about Louis,” he says.

“You sure about that, pal?”

“Yes.”

“The two of you seemed awfully chummy tonight.”

“Fuck off. And I know what you did. You’ve got no right meddling in my business like that.”

“I’m your sister,” she tells him. “It’s my job.”

“Well, get a new one,” he snaps, and stalks off towards the car. His exit would’ve been a dramatic one if it wasn’t for the fact that Gemma was the one to drive them there, and Harry makes up for his loss by sulking in the passenger seat the whole way home. To Gemma’s credit, she doesn’t broach the subject again, and he knows it’s well and truly dropped when they pull into his driveway and she pats his hand.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “I really am. I know how much you wanted it to work out.”

He shrugs, turning his face away so she can’t tell that his eyes are welling up. “Thank you,” he replies, and lets her pull him in for a clumsy side hug that somehow turns into him crying into her shoulder. It’s definitely not how he’d expected his evening to go, but he can’t find it in himself to regret it. He regrets nothing about his time with Louis, really.

Well, nothing besides the fact that it’s over. He regrets that plenty. Still, he made his bed, and now he’s got to lie in it.

He just wishes it wasn’t alone.

* * *

Five days after the events in Manchester, Louis receives a most unexpected visitor. For a moment, when he hears Doris shout for him that he’s got a guest, Louis allows himself to hope. He holds onto that hope all the way from his bedroom, down the stairs, to the hallway, where he sees that he was close. But close only counts in horseshoes and hand-grenades, and he has to work to hide the disappointment on his face before anyone picks up on it.

“Gemma?” he asks, “What are you doing here?”

“Currently freezing my tits off, if you must know,” she says from her spot on the doorstep. “Are you going to let me in or not?”

“I…”

“Lou, come on, it’s fucking cold.”

Hearing Harry’s nickname for him from Gemma is enough of a shock to his system that he remembers social protocols again. He steps aside and lets her into the house, waiting patiently as she sheds her shoes and coat before asking any more questions.

Well, maybe not so patiently, because the moment Gemma’s done hanging up her coat, Louis blurts. “Are you going to tell me why you’re really here?”

She rolls her eyes, and she looks so much like Harry in that moment it hurts. “Because of Harry, obviously,” she says, and Louis isn’t sure why he expected any other answer.

“Is he… I mean, is something wrong? Is he okay? He’s not like— He’s not…”

“What? No, Jesus, I would have fucking led with bad news like that, you idiot. No, I’m just here to tell you that you need to come home.”

“I am home.”

“Are you?”

“Yes, Gemma. I am.”

“Bullshit.”

“Nope. Not bullshit.”

“You’re really okay with him leaving, then?”

Louis opens his mouth to say ‘yes’, and then falters. “Of course not.”

“So go after him,” she says, like it’s really that simple.

“It’s not that simple.”

“Of course it is.”

“No, it’s not.”

“What’s not?” Doris asks, and Louis swears softly at himself for forgetting she was nearby.

“Nothing, love,” he says quickly.

Gemma narrows her eyes. “This isn’t ‘nothing’, Lou.”

There’s the nickname again. “Don’t call me that.”

“Call you what? Lou?”

He can’t help visibly flinching this time, and internally groaning at the pleased grin spreading across Gemma’s face.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” Louis says.

“Oh, of course not. Everyone has visceral reactions to the nicknames bestowed upon them by former paramours.”

Ernest has come to join Doris where she’s sitting on the steps. “You talk funny,” he tells Gemma, who winks.

“Oi, you two, this is a private conversation,” Louis snaps.

“What’s a private conversation— Oh, hi, Gemma!”

“Hey, Pheebs. How are you?”

Louis finds himself surrounded by his siblings now - thank fuck Dan is still at work or this would be a proper family ambush - all of whom are clambering to speak to Gemma, who appears to find the whole thing extremely amusing.

And, because Louis’ day hasn’t been mad enough, Dan is home early from work - today of all days - and he’s quickly filled in on the gossip. Louis feels betrayed, even more so when he takes their side.

“We talked about this, Lou,” Dan reminds him, and Louis thinks back to the conversation they’d had the night he returned home to Doncaster. Louis hadn’t been in the right place to truly listen to anything he’d said, didn’t believe it for a second when Dan had assured him that he was in no way responsible for what had happened at the twin’s birthday. That it wasn’t his responsibility to protect his family from everything, especially not at the expense of his own happiness. Louis hadn’t listened to any of it.

Until now.

“We did,” he admits, and it’s then that he knows he’s going to lose this battle. (But that doesn’t mean he’s going down without a fight.)

Apparently, neither is anyone else involved.

“C’mon, Lou,” Lottie says, after they’ve gone back and forth for nearly an hour, “did you really think we’d let you give up that easily?”

“I mean, obviously.”

“Well, we aren’t.”

“You’re impossible,” he says, with a groan that hopefully disguises just how bloody thankful he is for their interference. Because he is, really, even if it’s fucking embarrassing to rely on your sisters - not to mention the sister of the person you’re trying to win back - to help him succeed, but if their plan works, then he doesn’t really care. Because that’s all that matters to him right now, and he’ll be damned if he lets his own pride get in the way of what he wants.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, we can go. I give up.”

“Yeah, you do,” Gemma crows happily, and he snorts before going to seek out Dan to let him know where they’re going. He doesn’t give any details, doesn’t even mention Harry’s fucking name, yet his stepdad just seems to know exactly what he’s planning to do. Normally, this kind of thing would make him feel exposed, raw, too seen for comfort. He’s left that behind, though. Is this what maturing feels like? Because if so, Louis fucking hates it.

Or, he would, if it wasn’t the exact reason he’s going on this mad car ride to execute this mad plan. The whole thing is like something out of a rom-com, really, which Louis hopes will win him points with Harry. That is, if they manage to get there in time.

The thought that he could be too late sours his mood, makes his stomach twist uncomfortably, and he can’t waste any more time on deliberation.

He’s going to London to fight for his man. He’s going to London to fight for his family.

Holy shit; that’s new. And surprisingly not terrifying.

(Except for the fact that it is.)

* * *

When Louis comes back outside with a bag of assorted snack foods and drinks, he finds that no one has entered the [car](https://imgur.com/a/R96vlLi) despite the fact that he’d unlocked it before entering the house.

“What’s the hold-up?” he asks.

“Are we meant to all fit in this?”

He cocks his head at Lottie, who is still staring at him with a look that can only be described as incredulous.

“You’re not serious.”

“Of course I’m serious— Why are you looking at me like that? You know this is my car!”

“We didn’t think it was still your car.”

“How? You saw me on Boxing Day, how could you not remember— Oh.”

All three women are looking at him now, sympathetically, because Louis has remembered the reason his sisters never saw his car.

“We took his car, didn’t we,” he asks no one in particular, and steps forward quickly before one of the three hands reaching for him can make contact. “Well, this is the car we’ve got; unless one of you has another solution?”

Lottie frowns. “Mine’s not here.”

“Neither is mine,” Fizzy chimes in.

“I took an uber,” Gemma says.

“You took a— From… Nevermind, not important. Okay, so we’re taking my car, and anyone who doesn’t want to can just stay home, alright?”

“No way,” Lottie says, “I’m not missing this moment.”

“But it’s going to be so uncomfortable,” Fizzy complains. “And you know I get car sick.”

“Sit in the front then,” he tells her, “and, to be fair, no one actually invited the two of you.”

“Don’t be fucking rude, Lou,” Lottie chastises him, hitting him with her handbag lightly. “You wouldn’t even be taking this car journey if it wasn’t for us.”

“She’s right,” Gemma reminds him, and Louis realises he’s not going to win any arguments here.

“Shall we?” he says, “ And quickly, please; it’s a long drive.”

“I still don’t understand why we’re driving so far,” Fizzy complains, and Lottie elbows her.

“He’s got to get his man,” she says, “and also there’s no flights that’ll get there in time. Plus, its super romantic, isn’t it?”

Fizzy shrugs. “I suppose.”

“You three need to get a hobby that isn’t meddling in my relationships,” Louis mutters, and three pairs of eyes stare hard at him.

“I think you meant to say ‘thank you, lovely lasses, for all of the time and effort you’re putting into fixing this gargantuan mess I made of the best thing that’s ever happened to me.’”

“Pretty sure I didn’t,” he replies, and then relents, because while he doesn’t exactly fancy being cramped in his tiny car with three other people, he especially doesn’t fancy doing it with three peeved off passengers. “Fine; thank you.”

“Thank you what?”

“Thank you for helping.”

“You’re welcome,” the three of them say in unison, and Louis rolls his eyes.

“That’s dead creepy.”

Lottie smiles, baring her teeth in a way that’s probably meant to be intimidating. “Good.”

They pile into the car then, Louis grumbling at his lack of success at getting money for petrol, and after stopping by the station to fill up, they’re on the way to the airport. To London. A whole four and a half hours. More, probably, including stops. Still, it’s worth it. He just has to keep reminding himself of that fact.

Especially once they enter hour three, and Louis has never been more sick of being inside a car. Fizzy’s leaning her head against the window, eyes closed and breathing slow, Lottie is on her phone - not exactly a shocker, he muses - but what gets his attention is the fact that Gemma’s stopped talking his ear off.

“What’s got you so quiet?” he asks, trying to catch her eye in the rearview mirror, and her head snaps up. She looks guilty for a second, but it passes and she’s smiling normally again.

“Work stuff,” she says, by way of apology, and Louis feels a bit guilty.

“If I’d known you were busy I wouldn’t have pulled you into this.”

He feels rather than sees her kick the back of his seat. “I’m the one who pulled you into this, stupid. Don’t take credit for my ideas, especially not this one.”

“Why not this one?”

“Can’t tell you that.”

Louis rolls his eyes, because he’s known her long enough now to know he’s not going to get an answer out of her. She, like her brother, is excellent at evading anything they don’t feel like answering. Which is fine, because if it was super important she’d just tell him.

Hopefully.

“Are we going to have silence the entire way?” Lottie asks from the backseat, and Louis turns the radio on without answering.

“Oh, I love this station,” Fizzy says, humming happily. “They’re always doing cool things, like playing entire albums and stuff.”

“And it’s always throwbacks too,” Lottie chimes in. “Hey, Fiz, remember that time—”

Louis isn’t listening to them talking anymore, because the voice on the radio - obviously his sisters jinxed it - is cheerily announcing that they’ve got a special treat for “all you Status Single fans out there! I know you still exist!”

Fuck fucking fuck.

He reaches for the knob to change the station and hisses when Fizzy slaps his hand away.

“Don’t you dare!”

“It’s my car,” he protests. “Driver picks the music, remember?”

“Well, it was my car first.”

“And mine before that,” Lottie adds.

“But it’s not now; so I’m going to— Ow! Stop doing that!”

“Stop trying to change the station!”

“I don’t want to listen to this.”

“Yes you do; you know you’re secretly a Statuser. We all know it, just admit it.”

“Just because I’ve shagged a member of the band does not make me a Statuser.”

“Of course not, it makes you a groupie.”

“Can we change the subject now?” he pleads.

“Please,” Gemma begs. “I don’t want to hear any more about my brother’s sex life for the rest of my life, thank you.”

“Sorry, Gemma.”

“Thank you, Lottie.”

“Sorry, Gemma.”

“Thank you, Fizzy.”

“Sorry, Gemma.”

“Thank you, Lou—”

“Sorry for shagging your brother.”

The kick is harder this time, and he’s got no idea how she managed that level of force on a diagonal - it’s impressive, really.

“We’re going to crash if you do that again,” he tells her.

“Fine,” she replies. “Fizzy?”

“Sure,” Fizzy answers, and Louis’s confused because Gemma hadn’t actually said anything, and he’s about to ask for clarification when Fizzy pinches his elbow.

“Bloody hell! Fucking shit! What the fuck? It’s like you lot want to crash!” he cries.

“Of course we don’t want to crash.”

“Then stop!”

“Fine, as long as you stop trying to change the radio.”

“Not happening,” he says, calling her bluff, and earning himself a glare. He sighs and relents, chuckling softly as Fizzy’s glare immediately changes to a triumphant grin once she figures out she’s won.

Besides, and he’d never admit this to anyone - least of all Harry - the music is starting to grow on him. He’s mature enough now to admit he’d judged the style of music too harshly at the time, and has to work to stop himself from humming along to some of the catchier tunes.

Eventually, he stops fighting it, and the remainder of the journey turns into an extremely loud, extremely off-key, extremely hilarious sing-along that’s sure to leave his ears ringing for hours. He doesn’t really mind, actually, especially once he starts being able to pick out Harry’s parts, his various solos and lines and bits and bobs, and it’s wonderful. And, strangely enough, it feels like a sign that this just might work out. At the very least, he’s having a great time, and learning a lot about himself in the process.

Like how he might actually be a groupie. Like how he’d been too quick to judge Harry in the past; how he’d been equally as quick to assume Harry’s feelings for him were purely platonic

But mostly the groupie thing. Definitely not the fact that he’s once again let his tendency to jump to conclusions affect his life negatively, to cause him unnecessary stress, to—

No, it’s definitely the first one. No matter how much his sisters and Gemma try to convince him otherwise. Someday he’ll get better at lying to himself about his own feelings.

But, unfortunately for him, today is not that day.

* * *

The car hasn’t even come to a complete stop in the parking space before Louis’ throwing the door open. He launches himself from the vehicle and takes off towards the building as fast as he can. A plane flies over him; he prays it isn’t the one he thinks it is.

He keeps running.

As he gets closer, he’s regretting not joining Harry more often for those morning runs of his. He runs plenty with footie, but apparently not enough to get him from the car to the airport without bursting a lung or pulling a hamstring or something.

He doesn’t notice his sisters have been trailing behind him until they appear on either side of him, running at a leisurely pace and not seeming bothered by the distance at all.

“Show-offs,” he mutters, and moves to pick up his pace, grumbling as Gemma passes all three of them, cackling as he does. “This was a terrible idea,” he says.

“You don’t mean that,” Fizzy says.

“No. No, I don’t mean that.”

“Because you loooove him,” Lottie teases, and Louis half-considers tripping her, but doesn’t.

“Do you?” Fizzy asks, after a moment. “Love him, I mean.”

Louis keeps his eyes forward and he nods once, quickly, and gives no verbal reply.

“Fuck’s sake, Fiz,” Lottie laughs, “why do you think we went on this mad journey? I’m sure Harry’s not that excellent of a shag.”

“Shut up, Lots,” Louis growls, and he’s even closer to tripping her now. Then they’re at the kerb, then on the pavement, then Louis is rushing through the doors that lead him inside the building.

That lead him to Harry.

When he gets inside, he sees that Gemma is already there.

“What took you so long?”

Louis stands, hardly daring to believe what he’s seeing in front of him. He feels the sharp pain of an elbow in his side, and Lottie is hissing “It’s Harry!” in his ear. Even then it still won’t sink in; Louis is sure he’s seeing things, but it’s still enough to make him break into a jog in the direction of his hallucination. And ignore the burn in his lungs. Because it’s Harry.

Beau notices him before Harry does.

“Louis!” she shouts, and the sound of her voice after weeks of missing her is like music to his ears. He’s missed Harry - so much - but he’s also missed her too. The two of them had managed to worm themselves so completely into his life that Louis can’t imagine his life without either of them in it. This past month had been hell, and Louis doesn’t want to experience that ever again.

“Bo-bear!” he cries, and he opens his arms to give her a hug, but gets an armful of Harry instead. He stumbles back a bit, mostly because he’d been expecting to catch a 10-year-old girl, and not her 32-year-old father, but Louis isn’t complaining. Beau recovers quickly, apparently (hopefully) not offended by the fact that Harry’s just shoved her aside, and wraps her small arms around the both of them.

Harry’s pressing kisses all over Louis’ face, his cheeks, his eyelids, his chin, and - finally, finally - his mouth. He lets his lips linger against Louis’ and whispers, “What are you doing here?”

Louis laughs softly. “Shouldn’t you have asked that before kissing me?”

“Maybe,” Harry admits, “but when have we ever done anything in the right order?”

“This is true.” Louis finally returns Harry’s kiss, who sighs into it. “Also,” he says, “I’m going on holiday.”

“What?”

“The answer to your question,” Louis says again, “You asked why I’m here. I’m here because I’m going on holiday.”

Harry, who had resumed his small kisses, freezes and pulls his head back. “Oh. Oh! Oh, you aren’t…you aren’t here to see… I mean— That’s great, Lou.” Harry clears his throat once, twice, and moves to step away from Louis. “Hope you have a good time.”

Louis hums, working to keep a straight face, which is hard when his sisters are so obviously trying not to ruin the surprise behind Harry’s back. “I hope so,” he teases, “but I always have a good time with you, love. Even when you’re being daft.”

“What about me?” Beau asks from beside him. “Don’t you have a good time with me?”

“‘course I do, Bo-bear,” he reassures her, and ruffles her hair as she grins.

“Wait,” Harry sounds dazed, confused. “Wait. Wait, I feel like I’ve missed something.”

“Louis’ coming with us, Daddy,” Beau informs him, and then looks at Louis, just the tiniest bit of insecurity in her gaze. “Right? You’re coming with us on the plane? You’re coming to America?”

Louis nods, and Harry’s expression doesn’t change. “But… Why?”

“You want to know why?”

“Please.”

“See…” Louis starts. “See, there’s this guy. And, oh god, he’s an absolute twat. Wanna know what he did to me?” Harry nods faintly, and Louis, emboldened now, goes on. “So, I already knew who he was, right? I knew him, because he’d been in this god-awful boy band for years, and even if me bloody sisters hadn’t been so bloody in love with him, I’d still have known him, because he was just that famous.”

“I wasn’t that famous.”

“Don’t interrupt,” Louis chastises, and Harry mimics zipping his lips. “So this guy, I knew him, but he didn’t know me, but, fucking hell, I think someone forgot to tell him that, because there I was, minding my own business, when this kid just…” Louis giggles then, because the memory is just so ridiculous, “he just starts fucking singing to me, can you believe it?”

Harry shakes his head. “What a weirdo.”

“Right? The weirdest.”

“What happened next?”

“I fell in love with him.”

“What? That soon?”

“Of course not, Jesus, Harold. I’m not that pathetic. I waited the appropriate amount of time to fall in love, thank you very much.”

“Is that why you’re here, then?” Harry whispers. “Is it because you love him?”

“That’s part of it, yeah. I love him, and I love the way we just fit, and I adore his daughter, and our pets are friends now, and I think our sisters are best friends now, so they didn’t actually give me a choice, but do you want to know the biggest, most important reason?”

Harry nods quickly, so hard his chin bumps his chest, and Louis’ so fucking in love with him at that moment that these are the easiest words he’s ever said.

“I’m here,” he tells Harry, “because I was lying in my own bed, in my own house, surrounded by all my things, and all I wanted to do was go home.”

He’s yanked forward then, Harry’s fingers digging into his shoulders, and he barely feels the pain because it’s Harry, and everything’s good when it’s Harry. He’s babbling into Louis’ neck, and the only words he can make out are his name and “love you” and he shivers with the feeling.

Harry’s hair has grown out enough since the night Louis snuck in to see him that he can tangle his fingers in the strands. So he does, pulling Harry’s face away from his neck and pressing their lips together. Every kiss feels like an apology. Every kiss feels like home.

Louis forgets where they are until he hears a loud wolf whistle, and turns to glare at his - their - sisters. His glare softens when he sees their smiles, and he laughs when he notices Beau’s face is hidden behind Gemma’s hands.

Thank you he mouths, and hopes she knows it’s for more than sparing Beau’s eyes.

Shut up she mouths back, and he makes a goofy face. Beau giggles then, because Gemma’s moved her hands, and Louis exaggerates the face, puffing out his cheeks more and crossing his eyes. He catches Harry watching him fondly, and drops the face.

“Like what you see?”

“Always,” Harry says, and Louis’s still not used to his blatant honesty, but he figures he’s got time to learn. Possibly forever, even.

“Wait,” Louis remembers, “don’t you have a flight to catch?”

“It was cancelled,” Beau says, and Harry nods.

“We were just headed out to find a place to stay for the night. I had called Gemma to ask, but I don’t think she’s—”

“Hello, little brother,” Gemma says, stepping forward, quickly followed by Lottie and Fizzy. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Harry wrinkles his brow in confusion. “Gemma? What are you doing here? Why didn’t you answer, and—”

“I think you should let him explain,” she interrupts, gesturing towards Louis. “It’s his story to tell, not mine.”

Louis turns his head to look at her. “Wait, Harry called you? Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you answer him?”

She shrugs. “I figured he was calling to let me know his flight had been cancelled.”

Three Tomlinsons are gawking at her now. Lottie is the first to speak. “You knew? Why did you make Louis drive so fast then? I really thought we weren’t going to make it!”

“Because she likes the drama,” Harry says, and Gemma laughs.

“Like you’re one to talk,” she says.

“I can’t believe you kept that from us!” Lottie cries, and Fizzy nods in agreement.

Gemma laughs again. “Why did you guys think I was so calm?”

“I thought that was just your thing,” Louis says, “You’re just a calm person.”

“I mean, it is. And I am. But nope. This time, I knew it would work out fine. Because, she turns to looks at Louis, “if Harry here can win you over even after publicly embarrassing you in front of an entire pub, then you two can survive anything.”

“Actually, Harry didn’t properly win me over until after Niall’s wedding, when he— ”

Louis’ next sentence is cut off when Harry claps a hand over his mouth and laughs awkwardly. “I don’t think we need to share that with the class, Lou.”

He flushes. “Whoops.”

“You two are ridiculous,” Gemma says.

“Yeah, ridiculously adorable,” Harry counters, and if Louis wasn’t already aware just how gone he is for the man next to him, the fact that he finds his response so bloody endearing would be a big enough clue to convince him.

“I hope this doesn’t mean I’m going to start enjoying puns,” he says, not intending to voice that out loud, but not really caring whether or not Harry heard him. They’re in love, after all. And nothing says love like some good-natured ribbing.

It’s possible he and Harry do love differently than other people, which is fine. Because when have they ever been like other people?

“Never,” Harry replies, and Louis’ got no idea why he can’t keep his mouth shut today; he blames Harry, honestly.

They’re so caught up in their reunion that both Harry and Louis barely register the girls informing them that they’re leaving to search for a McDonald’s - Louis doesn't blame them; a hungry nine-year-old is not a nine-year-old you want to spend a long car ride with - and Louis’ now found himself in a posh airport bar with Harry, day drinking and generally making fools of themselves. Well, mostly Harry, because that’s just how he is. Louis’ learned to live with it.

“Your lips are like wine,” Harry slurs, leaning into Louis’ space, “and, baby, I want to get drunk.”

“What the fuck, Harry. What the actual fuck.”

“Did that not work? Have I not picked you up? Wait, hold on, lemme try it again.”

“Let’s get Dolly Parton to sing at our wedding,” Louis says. “It’ll be a right laugh.”

“Okay.”

“Promise? Promise me you’ll do it?”

Harry hooks his pinky with Louis’, who grins and tightens his grip. Harry responds in kind, snorting as Louis uses their linked hands to order another pint. “I forgot what we’re supposed to be promising,” Harry says.

“Oh, shit, me too.”

“Fuck.”

“I hope it wasn’t important,” Louis giggles.

“Nah.”

Harry bites his lip. “It was important, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Hmm, that’s unfortunate.”

“Oh well,” he sighs, and then, out of nowhere: “We met on a Wednesday, did you know that?”

“Did I know Wednesday Karaoke Night took place on a Wednesday? Gosh, Haz, tell me more.”

“Shut up, I hate you.”

“Aw, baby,” Louis coos. “You always say the sweetest things.”

“I really do.”

“Hate me? Or say the sweetest things?”

“Yes.”

“Fucking hell.”

“Do you think they have karaoke here?”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he warns.

“I mean, I could probably tell them who I am,” Harry muses. “Think they’d let me do an impromptu concert? Sing some covers? Maybe some country? A little Dolly Parton, perhaps?”

“I’m leaving you. I’m leaving this bar, and I’m leaving you.”

“But Lou,” he pouts, “then who will I sing to?”

“Him. Her. The bartender. Anyone but me.”

“Okay,” Harry says, “that’s fair. But I want you to know something.”

“What?”

“Come closer. It’s a secret.”

“Harry…”

“Please?”

“Fine, what is it?”

“You have to come closer, Lou. That’s how secrets work.”

“Wh—at the fuck, Harry!” he squawks when Harry yanks him forward by his sleeve. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I told you,” Harry says, his lips barely brushing the shell of Louis’ ear, “I want you to know something; I want you to know: If you change your mind, I’m the first in line…”

Louis rolls his eyes and fights back a smile, because even though Harry’s bordering on reenacting their first meeting, he’s also crooning one of Louis’ absolute favourite songs right into his ear. God, Louis must really be in love, because he’s allowing this to happen, not even stopping Harry as his volume starts to increase steadily.

Honey, I’m still free. Harry smacks a kiss on Louis’ cheek. Take a chance on me.

Before Louis knows what’s happening, Harry’s standing up, swaying his hips suggestively in Louis’ direction with a devilish smirk on his face.

If you need me, let me know, gonna be around

He pops his hip to the left, then the right, and Louis can’t look away.

If you've got no place to go, if you're feeling down

Harry takes his hand. Louis lets him. (Louis will always let him.)

If you're all alone when the pretty birds have flown

“Oops.”

Honey, I'm still free

“Hi.”

Take a chance on me

He finds himself being spun around, one arm up high above his head as the tequila shots churn uncomfortably in his stomach. Harry still hasn’t stopped.

Gonna do my very best and it ain't no lie he sings, quieter now. If you put me to the test, if you let me try

“God,” Louis snorts, “you’re so embarrassing.”

“That’s me,” Harry grins. “And I’m never gonna stop being embarrassing, or embarrassing you.”

Louis would be annoyed at anyone else who’d confessed something like that, but Harry’s idea of embarrassing is nothing like anyone else's. There’s also the fact that without Harry’s utter lack of shamelessness and inability to pick up on common social cues, they wouldn’t be sitting where they are right now.

“That a promise?” he asks.

“Maybe,” Harry shrugs.

“Make it a promise.”

“Okay, I promise.”

“Promise what?”

“I promise that I’m never going to stop embarrassing you.”

“And I promise that I’ll always be annoyed. Even if I have to fake it.”

“Do you do that often, then? Fake things?”

Louis waggles his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Yeah, I would. That’s why I asked.”

“Oh my fucking God. Wait… is that even possible?”

“To fake emotions? I mean, yeah? Isn’t that what lying is?”

“No, I mean fake an orgasm when you’ve got a dick.”

“It is if you wear a condom and moan loud enough,” Harry replies much too quickly for Louis’ liking.

“And you know this how?”

“I’ve never done it with you,” Harry assures him, but Louis still isn’t convinced, which Harry must realise because he keeps going. “Honest, babe, I’ve never needed to fake anything with you. I’d be mad to even consider it. Plus, you’re too fucking fit not to get me off.”

“Thanks?” Louis replies, and then snickers. “You’re so fucking pissed, mate.”

“Mate? Mate? Are you saying I’ve been demoted?”

“No, you idiot. The fuck is wrong with you?”

“Lots, probably. Hey, wanna hear a secret?”

“No, but you can tell me anyway.”

“I wanted to kiss you so badly that night. After we sang together. I barely stopped myself, figured you wouldn’t want that, so I didn’t.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry confirms. “Wanna know something else?”

“Hit me.”

“I really want to kiss you right now.”

“Oh?” Louis asks, intrigued

“Is that okay?”

He shrugs. “I suppose.”

“I’m going to kiss you, then.”

“Go ahead.”

“I can’t,” Harry groans, “you’ve gone and made it weird.”

“ _I_ made it weird? Since when am _I_ the weird one?”

“Uh, since always? Were you not aware of this?”

“Wanker.”

“That might get us kicked out, sweetheart.”

“God,” Louis groans, “I actually really hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

“Nope. If you hated me, you wouldn’t let me do this.” And Harry’s kissing him then, and the airport bar melts away, and all that matters is the feeling of Harry’s lips moving against his, of Harry’s warm tongue slipping into his mouth, falling into a familiar rhythm that he doesn’t know how he thought he could live without.

“What do we do now?” Louis asks when they finally break apart. “Like, what’s next? What are we supposed to be doing? I feel like we’re supposed to be doing something.” He’s restless, shivering again, because it’s still new, this knowledge that he’s got Harry back, that Harry chose him, and he chose Harry and they chose each other, and holy shit, he’s got a family now.

“Holy shit,” he says. “We’re a family now, aren’t we?”

Harry nods, and he must notice the expression on Louis’ face then, because he looks serious now. “Is that okay with you?”

Instead of answering, Louis grabs the front of his shirt and kisses him. He feels like he’s kissed Harry more today than the entire six months they’ve known each other. If he stopped to think about it, he’s sure his lips must hurt, but he’s not stopping to think, he’s falling and falling and leaping into the unknown future, and he’s terrified. When he relays as much to Harry, he earns himself a smile and another round of kisses.

Their sisters find them then, Beau in tow, and everything turns into a mess of shouts and giggles and congratulations that gets them kicked out of the bar.

The reunion is loud and messy and chaotic, and it hits Louis all over again that this is his life now. This is what he’s chosen, the future he’s picked, settling down with a former popstar and his daughter, fitting himself into their lives, the good parts and the bad parts and all the parts in between. He’d thought he could do it, thought he’d be able to give this all up. Move on. Be apart. And, realistically, he probably could - he’s a rational, functional adult; he could do it. But the weeks without Harry were hell - a hell he could survive, obviously, but why should he? Why should he deny himself this chance at happiness, especially now that he knows how well they fit - all three of them; _a family_ \- and how hard it is to be apart?

He doesn’t know what the future holds. Hell, he doesn’t even know what he’s doing ten minutes from now, especially considering his car seats four and they’ve got two more passengers, and he’s got no idea how they’ll get home. But that’s fine. Because he doesn’t have to make these kind of decisions on his own anymore. Not unless he wants to, obviously.

Harry breaks away from the group, takes Louis’ hand, and holds on until they’re a few steps behind the others. Louis can’t stop the smile that now seems to be a permanent fixture on his face, especially since Harry appears to be in a similar predicament. And then he remembers their _actual_ predicament and says, “I don’t know how we’re going to get home.”

He’d only intended it to be about the car, but somehow his words come out loaded with his worries for the future, completely unfounded but still 100% present, and Harry pulls him close, taking his other hand in his and intertwining their fingers. Louis lets himself be guided, lets Harry kiss his nose to his heart's content before whispering, “As long as we’re together, love, it’ll all be okay.”

“As long as we’re together,” Louis echoes, squeezing the hand inside of his, still barely able to contain his grin. Because as long as they’re together, he knows that everything will be alright. And anyone who says otherwise can fuck off, thank you very much.

“Hey, Lou.”

“Yeah?”

“D’ya think ABBA does, like, weddings? Asking for a friend.”

“Love, what the fuck,” Louis says flatly, rolling his eyes but still hopelessly endeared with this strange man next to him. “I mean, ‘m not as familiar with the industry as you are, Popstar, but I’m fairly certain at least one member of a band has to be alive for the band to, well… be a band.”

“So, that’s a no? Damn.”

“I’m sure your friend will be devastated to learn this.”

Harry nods solemnly. “I’ll be sure to break it to him gently.”

“You do that.”

They keep moving, silent until Harry says, “I’m the friend.”

“Are you? I’m shocked.” Louis stops walking. “Wait, this isn’t— You’re not… Asking? Question?”

Harry makes a choking noise then, like he’s swallowed wrong and everyone around them - including their respective family members, bloody fucking hell - turns to look.

“No!” He wheezes. “No.”

“Shit, Haz, didn’t realise the idea of marrying me was so objectionable,” Louis says before he has a chance to fully process what he’s just said. The M Word. The word he’d been scared of himself not too long ago, but now…

“That wasn’t an “I don’t want to marry you”. No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“What was it, then?”

“You… You just caught me off guard. Of course I wouldn’t actually react like that, Lou. I love you, you idiot.”

“Shit, Hazza, you really do say the sweetest things sometimes.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Yeah, from me.”

“Not just you,” Harry informs him primly, and Louis lets out a faux gasp.

“Are you trying to bait me into showing heterosexual jealousy?”

“Of course not, Lou,” he says, wrinkling his nose distastefully.

“Good, because I won’t do it, no matter how bloody in love with you I am.”

Harry smiles then. “I like hearing that.”

“What? That I’m in love with you?”

“Yeah. And me too,” he says quickly, though the speed of his response doesn’t trivialise the sentiment. “I’m in love with you too,” he clarifies, as if Louis even needs the reassurance, but somehow the fact that he feels the need at all makes the sentiment all the more sweeter, and Louis has to duck his head to hide his soppy grin.

He doesn’t realise how far they’ve traveled until he looks up to see the automatic doors he’d rushed through not too long ago, and flushes at the memory, the frantic feeling he’d experienced as he’d been convinced their flight had already departed, the sheer and utter joy at discovering they hadn’t. Today has been a day for emotions, he muses, and bites his lip to hide how nervous all of this makes him.

He watches Harry go through the door, sees the subtle shift of his skin, his hair, as he goes from fluorescent lighting to barely lit darkness. Louis knows what’s on the other side, knows his sisters and Beau and Harry are there waiting, but that doesn’t stop the subtle flutter he feels as he approaches the doorway.

And all Louis can think about, as he lets himself be guided through to the other side, over and over and over until he’s half-mad with it, until it’s almost nonsensical is: _As long as we’re together, we can do anything_.

He kisses Harry then, mouths catching, soft and sweet and slow and full of promises.

_Even this_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! 
> 
>  
> 
> [click here to reblog on tumblr ( ﾉ ^ヮ^ )ﾉﾟ☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ](http://velvetnoodle.tumblr.com/post/173142509082/louis-cant-believe-this-he-absolutely-cannot)


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